THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


'Wrought  was  she  of  a  painter's  dream,— 


Memorial  Edition 


The  Complete  Works  of 

James  Whitcomb  Riley 

IN   TEN   VOLUMES 

Including  Poems  and  Prose   Sketches,  many 
of  which   have   not   heretofore   been   pub 
lished;    an    authentic    Biography,    an 
elaborate  Index  and  numerous  Illus 
trations  in  color  from  Paintings 
by  Howard  Chandler  Christy 
and  Ethel  Franklin  Belts 

VOLUME  I 


HARPER    y    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

NEW   YORK   AND    LONDON 


r  o  ^  /  0 


V.I 


COPYRIGHT 

1883,  1885,  1887,  1888,  1890,  1891,  1892,  1893,  1894, 

1896,  1897,  1898,  1899,  1900,  1901,  1902,  1903,  1904, 

1905,  1906,  1907,  1908,  1909,  1910,  1911,  1912,  1913. 

BY  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 
COPYRIGHT  1916 


TO 

THE  MEMORY  OF 


AND 

IN  PLEASANT  RECOLLECTION  OF  MORE  THAN  THIRTY-FIVE  YEARS 
OF  BUSINESS  AND  PERSONAL  ASSOCIATION 

THESE  FINAL  VOLUMES 
ARE  AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED 


BORN:  DIED: 

October  7,  1849,  July  22,  1916 

Greenfield,  Ind.  Indianapolis,  Ind. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY — A  SKETCH 

A  BACKWARD  LOOK 23 

PHILIPER  FLASH 26 

THE  SAME  OLD  STORY 30 

To  A  BOY  WHISTLING 32 

AN  OLD  FRIEND 33 

WHAT  SMITH  KNEW  ABOUT  FARMING 34 

A  POET'S  WOOING 40 

MAN'S  DEVOTION 42 

A  BALLAD 45 

THE  OLD  TIMES  WERE  THE  BEST 49 

A  SUMMER  AFTERNOON 50 

AT  LAST 52 

FARMER  WHIPPLE — BACHELOR 54 

MY  JOLLY  FRIEND'S  SECRET 62 

THE  SPEEDING  OF  THE  KING'S  SPITE 65 

JOB  WORK 71 

PRIVATE  THEATRICALS 73 

PLAIN  SERMONS 75 

"  TRADIN'  JOE  " 76 

DOT  LEEDLE  BOY 81 

I  SMOKE  MY  PIPE 86 

RED  RIDING  HOOD 88 

IF  I  KNEW  WHAT  POETS  KNOW 89 

AN  OLD  SWEETHEART  OF  MINE 90 

SQUIRE  HAWKINS'S  STORY 95 

A  COUNTRY  PATHWAY 107 

THE  OLD  GUITAR 112 

"  FRIDAY  AFTERNOON  " 114 

"  JOHNSON'S  BOY  " 119 

HER  BEAUTIFUL  HANDS 121 

NATURAL  PERVERSITIES 123 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  SILENT  VICTORS -. 126 

SCRAPS 132 

AUGUST 134 

DEAD  IN  SIGHT  OF  FAME 136 

IN  THE  DARK 138 

THE  IRON  HORSE 140 

DEAD  LEAVES 143 

OVER  THE  EYES  OF  GLADNESS 145 

ONLY  A  DREAM 147 

OUR  LITTLE  GIRL 149 

THE  FUNNY  LITTLE  FELLOW 150 

SONG  OF  THE  NEW  YEAR 153 

A  LETTER  TO  A  FRIEND 155 

LINES  FOR  AN  ALBUM 156 

To  ANNIE 157 

FAME 158 

AN  EMPTY  NEST 161 

MY  FATHER'S  HALLS 162 

THE  HARP  OF  THE  MINSTREL 163 

HONEY  DRIPPING  FROM  THE  COMB 165 

JOHN  WALSH 166 

ORLIE  WILDE 168 

THAT  OTHER  MAUDE  MULLER 176 

A  MAN  OF  MANY  PARTS 178 

THE  FROG 180 

DEAD  SELVES 182 

A  DREAM  OF  LONG  AGO 185 

CRAQUEODOOM 188 

JUNE 190 

WASH  LOWRY'S  REMINISCENCE 191 

THE  ANCIENT  PRINTERMAN 195 

PRIOR  TO  Miss  BELLE'S  APPEARANCE 197 

WHEN  MOTHER  COMBED  MY  HAIR 200 

A  WRANGDILLION 202 

GEORGE  MULLEN'S  CONFESSION 204 

"  TIRED  OUT  " 213 

HARLIE.  .  .214 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

SAY  SOMETHING  TO  ME 215 

LEONAINIE 216 

A  TEST  OF  LOVE 218 

FATHER  WILLIAM 220 

WHAT  THE  WIND  SAID 222 

MORTON 229 

AN  AUTUMNAL  EXTRAVAGANZA 231 

THE  ROSE 233 

THE  MERMAN 235 

THE  RAINY  MORNING 237 

WE  ARE  NOT  ALWAYS  GLAD  WHEN  WE  SMILE 238 

A  SUMMER  SUNRISE 240 

DAS  KRIST  KINDEL 242 

AN  OLD  YEAR'S  ADDRESS 247 

A  NEW  YEAR'S  PLAINT 249 

LUTHER  BENSON 252 

DREAM 254 

WHEN  EVENING  SHADOWS  FALL 256 

YLLADMAR 258 

A  FANTASY 260 

A  DREAM 264 

DREAMER,  SAY 266 

BRYANT 268 

BABYHOOD 269 

LIBERTY 271 

TOM  VAN  ARDEN 281 

v— i 


James  Whitcomb  Riley 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY— A  SKETCH 

On  Sunday  morning,  October  seventh,  1849, 
Reuben  A.  Riley  and  his  wife,  Elizabeth  Marine 
Riley,  rejoiced  over  the  birth  of  their  second  son. 
They  called  him  James  Whitcomb.  This  was  in  a 
shady  little  street  in  the  shady  little  town  of  Green 
field,  which  is  in  the  county  of  Hancock  and  the 
state  of  Indiana.  The  young  James  found  a  brother 
and  a  sister  waiting  to  greet  him — John  Andrew 
and  Martha  Celestia,  and  afterward  came  Elva  May 
— Airs.  Henry  Eitel — Alexander  Humbolt  and  Mary 
Elizabeth,  who,  of  all,  alone  lives  to  see  this  collec 
tion  of  her  brother's  poems. 

James  Whitcomb  was  a  slender  lad,  with  corn-silk 
hair  and  wide  blue  eyes.  He  was  shy  and  timid,  not 
strong  physically,  dreading  the  cold  of  winter,  and 
avoiding  the  rougher  sports  of  his  playmates.  And 
yet  he  was  full  of  the  spirit  of  youth,  a  spirit  that 
manifested  itself  in  the  performance  of  many  in 
genious  pranks.  His  every-day  life  was  that  of  the 
average  boy  in  the  average  country  town  of  that  day, 
but  his  home  influences  were  exceptional.  His 
father,  who  became  a  captain  of  cavalry  in  the  Civil 
War,  was  a  lawyer  of  ability  and  an  orator  of  more 


JAMES   WHITCOMB  RILEY 

than  local  distinction.  His  mother  was  a  woman  of 
rare  strength  of  character  combined  with  deep  sym 
pathy  and  a  clear  understanding.  Together,  they 
made  home  a  place  to  remember  with  thankful 
heart.  When  James  was  twenty  years  old,  the  death 
of  his  mother  made  a  profound  impression  on  him, 
an  impression  that  has  influenced  much  of  his  verse 
and  has  remained  with  him  always. 

At  an  early  age  he  was  sent  to  school  and,  "then 
sent  back  again,"  to  use  his  own  words.  He  was 
restive  under  what  he  called  the  "iron  discipline." 
A  number  of  years  ago,  he  spoke  of  these  early  edu 
cational  beginnings  in  phrases  so  picturesque  and  so 
characteristic  that  they  are  quoted  in  full : 

"My  first  teacher  was  a  little  old  woman,  rosy  and 
roly-poly,  who  looked  as  though  she  might  have 
just  come  tumbling  out  of  a  fairy  story,  so  lovable 
was  she  and  so  jolly  and  so  amiable.  She  kept 
school  in  her  little  Dame-Trot  kind  of  dwelling 
of  three  rooms,  with  a  porch  in  the  rear,  like  a 
bracket  on  the  wall,  which  was  part  of  the  play 
ground  of  her  'scholars,' — for  in  those  days  pupils 
were  called  'scholars'  by  their  affectionate  teachers. 
Among  the  twelve  or  fifteen  boys  and  girls  who 
were  there  I  remember  particularly  a  little  lame  boy, 
who  always  got  the  first  ride  in  the  locust-tree  swing 
during  recess. 

"This  first  teacher  of  mine  was  a  mother  to  all 
her  'scholars,'  and  in  every  way  looked  after  their 
comfort,  especially  when  certain  little  ones  grew 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

drowsy.  I  was  often,  with  others,  carried  to  the  sit 
ting-room  and  left  to  slumber  on  a  small  made-down 
pallet  on  the  floor.  She  would  sometimes  take  three 
or  four  of  us  together ;  and  I  recall  how  a  playmate 
and  I,  having  been  admonished  into  silence,  grew 
deeply  interested  in  watching  a  spare  old  man  who 
sat  at  a  window  with  its  shade  drawn  down.  After 
a  while  we  became  accustomed  to  this  odd  sight  and 
would  laugh,  and  talk  in  whispers  and  give  imita 
tions,  as  we  sat  in  a  low  sewing-chair,  of  the  little 
old  pendulating  blind  man  at  the  window.  Well,  the 
old  man  was  the  gentle  teacher's  charge,  and  for  this 
reason,  possibly,  her  life  had  become  an  heroic  one, 
caring  for  her  helpless  husband  who,  quietly  con 
tent,  waited  always  at  the  window  for  his  sight  to 
come  back  to  him.  And  doubtless  it  is  to-day,  as 
he  sits  at  another  casement  and  sees  not  only  his 
earthly  friends,  but  all  the  friends  of  the  Eternal 
Home,  with  the  smiling,  loyal,  loving  little  woman 
forever  at  his  side. 

"She  was  the  kindliest  of  souls  even  when  con 
strained  to  punish  us.  After  a  whipping  she  invari 
ably  took  me  into  the  little  kitchen  and  gave  me  two 
great  white  slabs  of  bread  cemented  together  with 
layers  of  butter  and  jam.  As  she  always  whipped  me 
with  the  same  slender  switch  she  used  for  a  pointer, 
and  cried  over  every  lick,  you  will  have  an  idea  how 
much  punishment  I  could  stand.  When  I  was  old 
enough  to  be  lifted  by  the  ears  out  of  my  seat  that 
office  was  performed  by  a  pedagogue  whom  I  prom- 


JAMES  WH1TCOMB  R1LEY 

ised  to  'whip  sure,  if  he'd  just  wait  till  I  got  big 
enough/  He  is  still  waiting! 

"There  was  but  one  book  at  school  in  which  I 
found  the  slightest  interest :  McGuffey's  old  leather- 
bound  Sixth  Reader.  It  was  the  tallest  book 
known,  and  to  the  boys  of  my  size  it  was  a  matter  of 
eternal  wonder  how  I  could  belong  to  'the  big  class 
in  that  reader/  When  we  were  to  read  the  death  of 
'Little  Nell/  I  would  run  away,  for  I  knew  it  would 
make  me  cry,  that  the  other  boys  would  laugh  at 
me,  and  the  whole  thing  would  become  ridiculous. 
I  couldn't  bear  that.  A  later  teacher,  Captain 
Lee  O.  Harris,  came  to  understand  me  with 
thorough  sympathy,  took  compassion  on  my  weak 
nesses  and  encouraged  me  to  read  the  best  literature. 
He  understood  that  he  couldn't  get  numbers  into  my 
head.  You  couldn't  tamp  them  in !  History  I  also 
disliked  as  a  dry  thing  without  juice,  and  dates 
melted  out  of  my  memory  as  speedily  as  tin-foil  on 
a  red-hot  stove.  But  I  always  was  ready  to  declaim 
and  took  natively  to  anything  dramatic  or  theatrical. 
Captain  Harris  encouraged  me  in  recitation  and 
reading  and  had  ever  the  sweet  spirit  of  a  com 
panion  rather  than  the  manner  of  an  instructor." 

But  if  there  was  "only  one  book  at  school  in  which 
he  found  the  slightest  interest,"  he  had  before  that 
time  displayed  an  affection  for  a  book — simply  as 
such  and  not  for  any  printed  word  it  might  contain. 
And  this,  after  all,  is  the  true  book-lover's  love. 
Speaking  of  this  incident — and  he  liked  to  refer  to  it 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

as  his  "first  literary  recollection,"  he  said:  "Long 
before  I  was  old  enough  to  read  I  remember  buying 
a  book  at  an  old  auctioneer's  shop  in  Greenfield.  I 
can  not  imagine  what  prophetic  impulse  took  pos 
session  of  me  and  made  me  forego  the  ginger  cakes 
and  the  candy  that  usually  took  every  cent  of  my 
youthful  income.  The  slender  little  volume  must 
have  cost  all  of  twenty-five  cents !  It  was  Francis 
Quarles'  Divine  Emblems, — a  neat  little  affair  about 
the  size  of  a  pocket  Testament.  I  carried  it  around 
with  me  all  day  long,  delighted  with  the  very  feel  of 
it 

"'What  have  you  got  there,  Bub?'  some  one 
would  ask.  'A  book,'  I  would  reply.  'What  kind  of 
a  book?'  'Poetry-book.'  'Poetry!'  would  be  the 
amused  exclamation.  'Can  you  read  poetry?'  and, 
embarrassed,  I'd  shake  my  head  and  make  my 
escape,  but  I  held  on  to  the  beloved  little  volume." 

Every  boy  has  an  early  determination — a  first  one 
— to  follow  some  ennobling  profession,  once  he  has 
come  to  man's  estate,  such  as  being  a  policeman,  or 
a  performer  on  the  high  trapeze.  The  poet  would 
not  have  been  the  "Peoples'  Laureate,"  had  his  fairy 
god-mother  granted  his  boy-wish,  but  the  Greenfield 
baker.  For  to  his  childish  mind  it  "seemed  the  acme 
of  delight,"  using  again  his  own  happy  expression, 
"to  manufacture  those  snowy  loaves  of  bread,  those 
delicious  tarts,  those  toothsome  bon-bons.  And  then 
to  own  them  all,  to  keep  them  in  store,  to  watch 
over  and  guardedly  exhibit.  The  thought  of  getting 


JAMES   WHITCOMB  RILEY 

money  for  them  was  to  me  a  sacrilege.  Sell  them  ? 
No  indeed.  Eat  'em — eat  'em,  by  tray  loads  and 
dray  loads !  It  was  a  great  wonder  to  me  why  the 
pale-faced  baker  in  our  town  did  not  eat  all  his  good 
things.  This  I  determined  to  do  when  I  became 
owner  of  such  a  grand  establishment.  Yes,  sir.  I 
would  have  a  glorious  feast.  Maybe  I'd  have  Tom 
and  Harry  and  perhaps  little  Kate  and  Florry  in  to 
help  us  once  in  a  while.  The  thought  of  these  play 
mates  as  'grown-up  folks'  didn't  appeal  to  me.  I 
was  but  a  child,  with  wide-open  eyes,  a  healthy  appe 
tite  and  a  wondering  mind.  That  was  all.  But  I 
have  the  same  sweet  tooth  to-day,  and  every  time  I 
pass  a  confectioner's  shop,  I  think  of  the  big  baker 
of  our  town,  and  Tom  and  Harry  and  the  youngsters 
all." 

As  a  child,  he  often  went  with  his  father  to  the 
court-house  where  the  lawyers  and  clerks  playfully 
called  him  "Judge  Wick."  Here  as  a  privileged 
character  he  met  and  mingled  with  the  country  folk 
who  came  to  sue  and  be  sued,  and  thus  early  the 
dialect,  the  native  speech,  the  quaint  expressions  of 
his  "own  people"  were  made  familiar  to  him,  and 
took  firm  root  in  the  fresh  soil  of  his  young  memory. 
At  about  this  time,  he  made  his  first  poetic  attempt 
in  a  valentine  which  he  gave  to  his  mother.  Not 
only  did  he  write  the  verse,  but  he  drew  a  sketch  to 
accompany  it,  greatly  to  his  mother's  delight,  who, 
according  to  the  best  authority,  gave  the  young  poet 
"three  big  cookies  and  didn't  spank  me  for  two 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

weeks.  This  was  my  earliest  literary  encourage 
ment." 

Shortly  after  his  sixteenth  birthday,  young  Riley 
turned  his  back  on  the  little  schoolhouse  and  for 
a  time  wandered  through  the  different  fields  of  art, 
indulging  a  slender  talent  for  painting  until  he 
thought  he  was  destined  for  the  brush  and  palette, 
and  then  making  merry  with  various  musical  instru 
ments,  the  banjo,  the  guitar,  the  violin,  until  finally 
he  appeared  as  bass  drummer  in  a  brass  band.  "In 
a  few  weeks,"  he  said,  "I  had  beat  myself  into  the 
more  enviable  position  of  snare  drummer.  Then  I 
wanted  to  travel  with  a  circus,  and  dangle  my  legs 
before  admiring  thousands  over  the  back  seat  of  a 
Golden  Chariot.  In  a  dearth  of  comic  songs  for  the 
banjo  and  guitar,  I  had  written  two  or  three  myself, 
and  the  idea  took  possession  of  me  that  I  might  be 
a  clown,  introduced  as  a  character-song-man  and  the 
composer  of  my  own  ballads. 

"My  father  was  thinking  of  something  else,  how 
ever,  and  one  day  I  found  myself  with  a  'five-ought' 
paint  brush  under  the  eaves  of  an  old  frame  house 
that  drank  paint  by  the  bucketful,  learning  to  be  a 
painter.  Finally,  I  graduated  as  a  house,  sign  and 
ornamental  painter,  and  for  two  summers  traveled 
about  with  a  small  company  of  young  fellows  calling 
ourselves  'The  Graphics,'  who  covered  all  the  barns 
and  fences  in  the  state  with  advertisements." 

At  another  time  his  young  man's  fancy  saw  at 
tractive  possibilities  in  the  village  print-shop,  and 


JAMES   WHITCOMB  RILEY 

later  his  ambition  was  diverted  to  acting,  encouraged 
by  the  good  times  he  had  in  the  theatricals  of  the 
Adelphian  Society  of  Greenfield.  "In  my  dreamy 
way,"  he  afterward  said,  "I  did  a  little  of  a  number 
of  things  fairly  well — sang,  played  the  guitar  and 
violin,  acted,  painted  signs  and  wrote  poetry.  My 
father  did  not  encourage  my  verse-making  for  he 
thought  it  too  visionary,  and  being  a  visionary  him 
self,  he  believed  he  understood  the  dangers  of  fol 
lowing  the  promptings  of  the  poetic  temperament.  I 
doubted  if  anything  would  come  of  the  verse-writing 
myself.  At  this  time  it  is  easy  to  picture  my  father, 
a  lawyer  of  ability,  regarding  me,  nonplused,  as  the 
worst  case  he  had  ever  had.  He  wanted  me  to  do 
something  practical,  besides  being  ambitious  for  me 
to  follow  in  his  footsteps,  and  at  last  persuaded  me 
to  settle  down  and  read  law  in  his  office.  This  I 
really  tried  to  do  conscientiously,  but  finding  that 
political  economy  and  Blackstone  did  not  rhyme  and 
that  the  study  of  law  was  unbearable,  I  slipped  out 
of  the  office  one  summer  afternoon,  when  all  out 
doors  called  imperiously,  shook  the  last  dusty  prem 
ise  from  my  head  and  was  away. 

"The  immediate  instigator  of  my  flight  was  a 
traveling  medicine  man  who  appealed  to  me  for  this 
reason :  My  health  was  bad,  very  bad, — as  bad  as  I 
was.  Our  doctor  had  advised  me  to  travel,  but  how 
could  I  travel  without  money?  The  medicine  man 
needed  an  assistant  and  I  plucked  up  courage  to  ask 


JAMES   WH1TCOMB  R1LEY 

if  I  could  join  the  party  and  paint  advertisements 
for  him. 

"I  rode  out  of  town  with  that  glittering  cavalcade 
without  saying  good-by  to  any  one,  and  though  my 
patron  was  not  a  diplomaed  doctor,  as  I  found  out, 
he  was  a  man  of  excellent  habits,  and  the  whole  com 
pany  was  made  up  of  good  straight  boys,  jolly 
chirping  vagabonds  like  myself.  It  was  delightful 
to  bowl  over  the  country  in  that  way.  I  laughed 
all  the  time.  Miles  and  miles  of  somber  landscape 
were  made  bright  with  merry  song,  and  when  the 
sun  shone  and  all  the  golden  summer  lay  spread  out 
before  us,  it  was  glorious  just  to  drift  on  through 
it  like  a  wisp  of  thistle-down,  careless  of  how,  or 
when,  or  where  the  wind  should  anchor  us.  'There's 
a  tang  of  gipsy  blood  in  my  veins  that  pants  for  the 
sun  and  the  air.' 

"My  duty  proper  was  the  manipulation  of  two 
blackboards,  swung  at  the  sides  of  the  wagon  during 
our  street  lecture  and  concert.  These  boards  were 
alternately  embellished  with  colored  drawings  illus 
trative  of  the  manifold  virtues  of  the  nostrum 
vended.  Sometimes  I  assisted  the  musical  olio  with 
dialect  recitations  and  character  sketches  from  the 
back  step  of  the  wagon.  These  selections  in  the 
main  originated  from  incidents  and  experiences 
along  the  route,  and  were  composed  on  dull  Sundays 
in  lonesome  little  towns  where  even  the  church  bells 
seemed  to  bark  at  us." 


JAMES   WHITCOMB  RILEY 

On  his  return  to  Greenfield  after  this  delightful 
but  profitless  tour  he  became  the  local  editor  of  his 
home  paper  and  in  a  few  months  "strangled  the 
little  thing  into  a  change  of  ownership."  The  new 
proprietor  transferred  him  to  the  literary  depart 
ment  and  the  latter,  not  knowing  what  else  to  put  in 
the  space  allotted  him,  filled  it  with  verse.  But 
there  was  not  room  in  his  department  for  all  he  pro 
duced,  so  he  began,  timidly,  to  offer  his  poetic  wares 
in  foreign  markets.  The  editor  of  The  Indianapolis 
Mirror  accepted  two  or  three  shorter  verses  but 
in  doing  so  suggested  that  in  the  future  he  try 
prose.  Being  but  an  humble  beginner,  Riley  hark- 
ened  to  the  advice,  whereupon  the  editor  made  a 
further  suggestion;  this  time  that  he  try  poetry 
again.  The  Danbury  (Connecticut)  News,  then  at 
the  height  of  its  humorous  reputation,  accepted  a 
contribution  shortly  after  The  Mirror  episode  and 
Mr.  McGeechy,  its  managing  editor,  wrote  the 
young  poet  a  graceful  note  of  congratulation.  Com 
menting  on  these  parlous  times,  Riley  afterward 
wrote,  "It  is  strange  how  little  a  thing  sometimes 
makes  or  unmakes  a  fellow.  In  these  dark  days  I 
should  have  been  content  with  the  twinkle  of  the 
tiniest  star,  but  even  this  light  was  withheld  from 
me.  Just  then  came  the  letter  from  McGeechy ;  and 
about  the  same  time,  arrived  my  first  check,  a  pay 
ment  from  Hearth  and  Home  for  a  contribution 
called  A  Destiny  (now  A  Dreamer  in  A  Child 
World).  The  letter  was  signed,  'Editor'  and  unless 


JAMES   WH1TCOMB   RILEY 

sent  by  an  assistant  it  must  have  come  from  Ik 
Marvel  himself,  God  bless  him!  I  thought  my 
fortune  made.  Almost  immediately  I  sent  off  an 
other  contribution,  whereupon  to  my  dismay  came 
this  reply  :  'The  management  has  decided  to  discon 
tinue  the  publication  and  hopes  that  you  will  find 
a  market  for  your  worthy  work  elsewhere.'  Then 
followed  dark  days  indeed,  until  finally,  inspired  by 
my  old  teacher  and  comrade,  Captain  Lee  O.  Harris, 
I  sent  some  of  my  poems  to  Longfellow,  who  re 
plied  in  his  kind  and  gentle  manner  with  the  sub 
stantial  encouragement  for  which  I  had  long 
thirsted." 

In  the  year  following,  Riley  formed  a  connection 
with  The  Anderson  (Indiana)  Democrat  and  con 
tributed  verse  and  locals  in  more  than  generous 
quantities.  He  was  happy  in  this  work  and  had  be 
gun  to  feel  that  at  last  he  was  making  progress 
when  evil  fortune  knocked  at  his  door  and,  con 
spiring  with  circumstances  and  a  friend  or  two,  in 
duced  the  young  poet  to  devise  what  afterward 
seemed  to  him  the  gravest  of  mistakes, — the  Poe- 
poem  hoax.  He  was  then  writing  for  an  audience 
of  county  papers  and  never  dreamed  that  this 
whimsical  bit  of  fooling  would  be  carried  beyond 
such  boundaries.  It  was  suggested  by  these  circum 
stances.  He  was  inwardly  distressed  by  the  belief 
that  his  failure  to  get  the  magazines  to  accept  his 
verse  was  due  to  his  obscurity,  while  outwardly  he 
was  harassed  to  desperation  by  the  junior  editor  of 


JAMES   WHITCOMB  RILEY 

the  rival  paper  who  jeered  daily  at  his  poetical  pre 
tensions.  So,  to  prove  that  editors  would  praise 
from  a  known  source  what  they  did  not  hesitate  to 
condemn  from  one  unknown,  and  to  silence  his  nag 
ging  contemporary,  he  wrote  Leonainie  in  the  style 
of  Poe,  concocting  a  story,  to  accompany  the  poem, 
setting  forth  how  Poe  came  to  write  it  and  how  all 
these  years  it  had  been  lost  to  view.  In  a  few 
words  Mr.  Riley  related  the  incident  and  then  dis 
missed  it.  "I  studied  Poe's  methods.  He  seemed 
to  have  a  theory,  rather  misty  to  be  sure,  about  the 
use  of  'm's'  and  *nV  and  mellifluous  vowels  and 
sonorous  words.  I  remember  that  I  was  a  long  time 
in  evolving  the  name  Leonainie,  but  at  length  the 
verses  were  finished  and  ready  for  trial. 

"A  friend,  the  editor  of  The  Kokomo  Dispatch, 
undertook  the  launching  of  the  hoax  in  his  paper ; 
he  did  this  with  great  editorial  gusto  while,  at  the 
same  time,  I  attacked  the  authenticity  of  the  poem 
in  The  Democrat.  That  diverted  all  possible  sus 
picion  from  me.  The  hoax  succeeded  far  too  well, 
for  what  had  started  as  a  boyish  prank  became  a 
literary  discussion  nation-wide,  and  the  necessary 
expose  had  to  be  made.  I  was  appalled  at  the  re 
sult.  The  press  assailed  me  furiously,  and  even  my 
own  paper  dismissed  me  because  I  had  given  the 
'discovery*  to  a  rival." 

Two  dreary  and  disheartening  years  followed  this 
tragic  event,  years  in  which  the  young  poet  found 
no  present  help,  nor  future  hope.  But  over  in  In- 


JAMES   WHITCOMB  RILEY 

dianapolis,  twenty  miles  away,  happier  circum 
stances  were  shaping  themselves.  Judge  E.  B. 
Martindale,  editor  and  proprietor  of  The  Indian 
apolis  Journal,  had  been  attracted  by  certain  poems 
in  various  papers  over  the  state  and  at  the  very  time 
that  the  poet  was  ready  to  confess  himself  beaten, 
the  judge  wrote:  "Come  over  to  Indianapolis  and 
we'll  give  you  a  place  on  The  Journal."  Mr.  Riley 
went.  That  was  the  turning  point,  and  though  the 
skies  were  not  always  clear,  nor  the  way  easy,  still 
from  that  time  it  was  ever  an  ascending  journey. 
As  soon  as  he  was  comfortably  settled  in  his  new 
position,  the  first  of  the  Benj.  F.  Johnson  poems 
made  its  appearance.  These  dialect  verses  were 
introduced  with  editorial  comment  as  coming  from 
an  old  Boone  county  farmer,  and  their  reception 
was  so  cordial,  so  enthusiastic,  indeed,  that  the  busi 
ness  manager  of  The  Journal,  Mr.  George  C.  Hitt, 
privately  published  them  in  pamphlet  form  and  sold 
the  first  edition  of  one  thousand  copies  in  local 
bookstores  and  over  The  Journal  office  counter. 
This  marked  an  epoch  in  the  young  poet's  progress 
and  was  the  beginning  of  a  friendship  between  him 
and  Mr.  Hitt  that  has  never  known  interruption. 
This  first  edition  of  The  Old  Swimmin'  Hole  and 
'Leven  More  Poems  has  since  become  extremely 
rare  and  now  commands  a  high  premium.  A  sec 
ond  edition  was  promptly  issued  by  a  local  book 
dealer,  whose  successors,  The  Bowen-Merrill  Com 
pany — now  The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company — have 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

continued,  practically  without  interruption,  to  pub 
lish  Riley's  work. 

The  call  to  read  from  the  public  platform  had 
by  this  time  become  so  insistent  that  Riley  could 
no  longer  resist  it,  although  modesty  and  shyness 
fought  the  battle  for  privacy.  He  told  briefly  and 
in  his  own  inimitable  fashion  of  these  trying  experi 
ences.  "In  boyhood  I  had  been  vividly  impressed 
with  Dickens'  success  in  reading  from  his  own 
works  and  dreamed  that  some  day  I  might  follow 
his  example.  At  first  I  read  at  Sunday-school  en 
tertainments  and  later,  on  special  occasions  such  as 
Memorial  Days  and  Fourth  of  Julys.  At  last 
I  mustered  up  sufficient  courage  to  read  in  a  city 
theater,  where,  despite  the  conspiracy  of  a  rainy 
night  and  a  circus,  I  got  encouragement  enough  to 
lead  me  to  extend  my  efforts.  And  so,  my  native 
state  and  then  the  country  at  large  were  called  upon 
to  bear  with  me  and  I  think  1  visited  every  se 
questered  spot  north  or  south  particularly  dis 
tinguished  for  poor  railroad  connections.  At  dif 
ferent  times,  I  shared  the  program  with  Mark 
Twain,  Robert  J.  Burdette  and  George  Cable,  and 
for  a  while  my  gentlest  and  cheeriest  of  friends, 
Bill  Nye,  joined  with  me  and  made  the  dusty  de 
tested  travel  almost  a  delight.  We  were  constantly 
playing  practical  jokes  on  each  other  or  indulging 
in  some  mischievous  banter  before  the  audience. 
On  one  occasion,  Mr.  Nye,  coming  before  the  foot 
lights  for  a  word  of  general  introduction,  said, 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

'Ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  entertainment  to-night 
is  of  a  dual  nature.  Mr.  Riley  and  I  will  speak  al 
ternately.  First  I  come  out  and  talk  until  I  get 
tired,  then  Mr.  Riley  comes  out  and  talks  until  you 
get  tired !'  And  thus  the  trips  went  merrily  enough 
at  times  and  besides  I  learned  to  know  in  Bill  Nye 
a  man  blessed  with  as  noble  and  heroic  a  heart  as 
ever  beat.  But  the  making  of  trains,  which  were  all 
in  conspiracy  to  outwit  me,  schedule  or  no  schedule, 
and  the  rush  and  tyrannical  pressure  of  inviolable 
engagements,  some  hundred  to  a  season  and  from 
Boston  to  San  Francisco,  were  a  distress  to  my 
soul.  I  am  glad  that's  over  with.  Imagine  your 
self  on  a  crowded  day-long  excursion ;  imagine  that 
you  had  to  ride  all  the  way  on  the  platform  of  the 
car ;  then  imagine  that  you  had  to  ride  all  the  way 
back  on  the  same  platform ;  and  lastly,  try  to  imag 
ine  how  you  would  feel  if  you  did  that  every  day  of 
your  life,  and  you  will  then  get  a  glimmer — a  faint 
glimmer — of  how  one  feels  after  traveling  about  on 
a  reading  or  lecturing  tour. 

"All  this  time  I  had  been  writing  whenever  there 
was  any  strength  left  in  me.  I  could  not  resist  the 
inclination  to  write.  It  was  what  I  most  enjoyed 
doing.  And  so  I  wrote,  laboriously  ever,  more 
often  using  the  rubber  end  of  the  pencil  than  the 
point. 

"In  my  readings  I  had  an  opportunity  to  study 
and  find  out  for  myself  what  the  public  wants,  and 
afterward  I  would  endeavor  to  use  the  knowledge 

I— 2 


JAMES   WHITCOMB  RILEY 

gained  in  my  writing.  The  public  desires  nothing 
but  what  is  absolutely  natural,  and  so  perfectly  nat 
ural  as  to  be  fairly  artless.  It  can  not  tolerate  af 
fectation,  and  it  takes  little  interest  in  the  classical 
production.  It  demands  simple  sentiments  that  come 
direct  from  the  heart.  While  on  the  lecture  plat 
form  I  watched  the  effect  that  my  readings  had  on 
the  audience  very  closely  and  whenever  anybody  left 
the  hall  I  knew  that  my  recitation  was  at  fault  and 
tried  to  find  out  why.  Once  a  man  and  his  wife 
made  an  exit  while  I  was  giving  The  Happy  Little 
Cripple — a  recitation  I  had  prepared  with  par 
ticular  enthusiasm  and  satisfaction.  It  fulfilled,  as 
few  poems  do,  all  the  requirements  of  length,  climax 
and  those  many  necessary  features  for  a  recitation. 
The  subject  was  a  theme  of  real  pathos,  beautified 
by  the  cheer  and  optimism  of  the  little  sufferer. 
Consequently  when  this  couple  left  the  hall  I  was 
very  anxious  to  know  the  reason  and  asked  a  friend 
to  find  out.  He  learned  that  they  had  a  little  hunch 
back  child  of  their  own.  After  this  experience  I 
never  used  that  recitation  again.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  often  required  a  long  time  for  me  to 
realize  that  the  public  would  enjoy  a  poem  which, 
because  of  some  blind  impulse,  I  thought  unsuita 
ble.  Once  a  man  said  to  me,  'Why  don't  you  re 
cite  When  the  Frost  Is  on  the  Punkin?'  The  use 
of  it  had  never  occurred  to  me  for  I  thought  it 
'wouldn't  go.'  He  persuaded  me  to  try  it  and  it 
became  one  of  my  most  favored  recitations.  Thus, 
I  learned  to  judge  and  value  my  verses  by  their 


JAMES   WHITCOMB   RILEY 

effect  upon  the  public.  Occasionally,  at  first,  I  had 
presumed  to  write  'over  the  heads'  of  the  audience, 
consoling  myself  for  the  cool  reception  by  think 
ing  my  auditors  were  not  of  sufficient  intellectual 
height  to  appreciate  my  efforts.  But  after  a  time 
it  came  home  to  me  that  I  myself  was  at  fault  in 
these  failures,  and  then  I  disliked  anything  that 
did  not  appeal  to  the  public  and  learned  to  discrim 
inate  between  that  which  did  not  ring  true  to  my 
hearers  and  that  which  won  them  by  virtue  of  its 
truthfulness  and  was  simply  heart  high." 

As  a  reader  of  his  own  poems,  as  a  teller  of 
humorous  stories,  as  a  mimic,  indeed  as  a  finished 
actor,  Riley's  genius  was  rare  and  beyond  ques 
tion.  In  a  lecture  on  the  Humorous  Story,  Mark 
Twain,  referring  to  the  story  of  the  One  Legged 
Soldier  and  the  different  ways  of  telling  it,  once 
said: 

"It  takes  only  a  minute  and  a  half  to  tell  it  in  its 
comic  form ;  and  it  isn't  worth  telling  after  all.  Put 
into  the  humorous-story  form,  it  takes  ten  minutes, 
and  is  about  the  funniest  thing  I  have  ever  listened 
to — as  James  Whitcomb  Riley  tells  it. 

"The  simplicity  and  innocence  and  sincerity  and 
unconsciousness  of  Riley's  old  farmer  are  perfectly 
simulated,  and  the  result  is  a  performance  which 
is  thoroughly  charming  and  delicious.  This  is  art 
— and  fine  and  beautiful,  and  only  a  master  can 
compass  it." 

It  was  in  1883  that  The  Old  Swimmin'  Hole 


JAMES   WHITCOMB   RILEY 

and  'Leven  More  Poems  first  appeared  in  volume 
form.  Four  years  afterward,  Riley  made  his  initial 
appearance  before  a  New  York  City  audience.  The 
entertainment  was  given  in  aid  of  an  international 
copyright  law,  and  the  country's  most  distinguished 
men  of  letters  took  part  in  the  program.  It  is  prob 
ably  true  that  no  one  appearing  at  that  time  was  less 
known  to  the  vast  audience  in  Chickering  Hall  than 
James  Whitcomb  Riley,  but  so  great  and  so  spon 
taneous  was  the  enthusiasm  when  he  left  the  stage 
after  his  contribution  to  the  first  day's  program,  that 
the  management  immediately  announced  a  place 
would  be  made  for  Mr.  Riley  on  the  second  and  last 
day's  program.  It  was  then  that  James  Russell 
Lowell  introduced  him  in  the  following  words : 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen :  I  have  very  great  pleas 
ure  in  presenting  to  you  the  next  reader  of  this 
afternoon,  Mr.  James  Whitcomb  Riley,  of  Indiana. 
I  confess,  with  no  little  chagrin  and  sense  of  my 
own  loss,  that  when  yesterday  afternoon,  from  this 
platform,  I  presented  him  to  a  similar  assemblage, 
I  was  almost  completely  a  stranger  to  his  poems. 
But  since  that  time  I  have  been  looking  into  the 
volumes  that  have  come  from  his  pen,  and  in  them 
I  have  discovered  so  much  of  high  worth  and  ten 
der  quality  that  I  deeply  regret  I  had  not  long  be 
fore  made  acquaintance  with  his  work.  To-day,  in 
presenting  Mr.  Riley  to  you,  I  can  say  to  you  of 
my  own  knowledge,  that  you  are  to  have  the  pleas 
ure  of  listening  to  the  voice  of  a  true  poet." 


JAMES   WHITCOMB   R1LEY 

Two  years  later  a  selection  from  his  poems  was 
published  in  England  under  the  title  Old  Fashioned 
Roses  and  his  international  reputation  was  estab 
lished.  In  his  own  country  the  people  had  already 
conferred  their  highest  degrees  on  him  and  now  the 
colleges  and  universities — seats  of  conservatism — 
gave  him  scholastic  recognition.  Yale  made  him  an 
Honorary  Master  of  Arts  in  1902 ;  in  1903,  Wabash 
and,  a  year  later,  the  University  of  Pennsylvania 
conferred  on  him  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Letters, 
and  in  1907  Indiana  University  gave  him  his  LL.  D. 
Still  more  recently  the  Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters 
elected  him  to  membership,  and  in  1912  awarded 
him  the  gold  medal  for  poetry.  About  this  time  a 
yet  dearer,  more  touching  tribute  came  to  him  from 
school  children.  On  October  7,  1911,  the  schools  of 
Indiana  and  New  York  City  celebrated  his  birthday 
by  special  exercises,  and  one  year  later,  the  school 
children  of  practically  every  section  of  the  country 
had  programs  in  his  honor. 

As  these  distinguished  honors  came  they  found 
him  each  time  surprised  anew  and,  though  proud 
that  they  who  dwell  in  the  high  places  of  learning 
should  come  in  cap  and  gown  to  welcome  him,  yet 
gently  and  sincerely  protesting  his  own  unworthi- 
ness.  And  as  they  found  him  when  they  came  so 
they  left  him. 

Mr.  Riley  made  his  home  in  Indianapolis  from 
the  time  Judge  Martindale  invited  him  to  join  The 
Journal's  forces,  and  no  one  of  her  citizens  was 


more  devoted,  nor  was  any  so  universally  loved  and 
honored.  Everywhere  he  went  the  tribute  of  quick 
recognition  and  cheery  greeting  was  paid  him,  and 
his  home  was  the  shrine  of  every  visiting  Hoosier. 
High  on  a  sward  of  velvet  grass  stands  a  dignified 
middle-aged  brick  house.  A  dwarfed  stone  wall, 
broken  by  an  iron  gate,  guards  the  front  lawn, 
while  in  the  rear  an  old-fashioned  garden  revels  in 
hollyhocks  and  wild  roses.  Here  among  his  books 
and  his  souvenirs  the  poet  spent  his  happy  and  con 
tented  days.  To  reach  this  restful  spot,  the  pilgrim 
must  journey  to  Lockerbie  Street,  a  miniature  thor 
oughfare  half  hidden  between  two  more  command 
ing  avenues.  It  is  little  more  than  a  lane,  shaded, 
unpaved  and  from  end  to  end  no  longer  than  a  five 
minutes'  walk,  but  its  fame  is  for  all  time. 

"Such  a  dear  little  street  it  is,  nestled  away 
From  the  noise  of  the  city  and  heat  of  the  day, 
In  cool  shady  coverts  of  whispering  trees, 
With  their  leaves  lifted  up  to  shake  hands  with  the 

breeze 

Which  in  all  its  wide  wanderings  never  may  meet 
With  a  resting-place  fairer  than  Lockerbie  Street !" 

Riley  never  married.  He  lived  with  devoted, 
loyal  and  understanding  friends,  a  part  of  whose 
life  he  became  many  years  ago.  Kindly  considera 
tion,  gentle  affection,  peace  and  order, — all  that  go 
to  make  home  home,  were  found  here  blooming 
with  the  hollyhocks  and  the  wild  roses.  Every 


JAMES  WH1TCOMB  RILEY 

day  some  visitor  knocked  for  admittance  and  was 
not  denied ;  every  day  saw  the  poet  calling  for  some 
companionable  friend  and  driving  with  him  through 
the  city's  shaded  streets  or  far  out  into  the  country. 

And  so  his  life  drew  on  to  its  last  and  most  beau 
tiful  year.  Since  his  serious  illness  in  1910,  the 
public  had  shown  its  love  for  him  more  and  more 
frequently.  On  the  occasion  of  his  birthday  in 
1912,  Greenfield  had  welcomed  him  home  through 
a  host  of  children  scattering  flowers.  Anderson, 
where  he  was  living  when  he  first  gained  public 
recognition,  had  a  Riley  Day  in  1913.  The  Indiana 
State  University  entertained  him  the  same  year,  as 
did  also  the  city  of  Cincinnati.  In  1915  there  was 
a  Riley  Day  at  Columbus,  Indiana,  and  during  all 
this  time  each  birthday  and  Christmas  was  marked 
by  "poetry-showers,"  and  by  thousands  of  letters 
of  affectionate  congratulation  and  by  many  tributes 
in  the  newspapers  and  magazines. 

His  last  birthday,  October  7,  1915,  was  the  most 
notable  of  all.  Honorable  Franklin  K.  Lane,  Secre 
tary  of  the  Interior,  suggested  to  the  various  school 
superintendents  that  one  of  Riley's  poems  be  read 
in  each  schoolhouse,  with  the  result  that  Riley  cele 
brations  were  general  among  the  children  of  the 
entire  country.  In  a  proclamation  by  Governor 
Ralston  the  State  of  Indiana  designated  the  anni 
versary  as  Riley  Day  in  honor  of  its  "most  beloved 
citizen."  Thousands  of  letters  and  gifts  from  the 
poet's  friends  poured  in — letters  from  schools  and 


JAMES   WH1TCOMB  RILEY 

organizations  and  Riley  Clubs  as  well  as  from  in 
dividuals — while  flowers  came  from  every  section 
of  the  country.  Among  them  all,  perhaps  the  poet 
was  most  pleased  with  a  bunch  of  violets  picked 
from  the  banks  of  the  Brandy  wine  by  the  children 
of  a  Riley  school. 

It  was  on  this  last  birthday  that  an  afternoon 
festival  of  Riley  poems  set  to  music  and  danced 
in  pantomime  took  place  at  Indianapolis.  This  was 
followed  at  night  by  a  dinner  in  his  honor  at  which 
Charles  Warren  Fairbanks  presided,  and  the  speak 
ers  were  Governor  Ralston,  Doctor  John  Finley, 
Colonel  George  Harvey,  Young  E.  Allison,  William 
Allen  White,  George  Ade,  Ex-Senator  Beveridge 
and  Senator  Kern.  That  night  Riley  smiled  his 
most  wonderful  smile,  his  dimpled  boyish  smile,  and 
when  he  rose  to  speak  it  was  with  a  perceptible 
quaver  in  his  voice  that  he  said :  "Everywhere  the 
faces  of  friends,  a  beautiful  throng  of  friends !" 

The  winter  and  spring  following,  Riley  spent 
quietly  at  Miami,  Florida,  where  he  had  gone  the 
two  previous  seasons  to  escape  the  cold  and  the  rain. 
There  was  a  Riley  Day  at  Miami  in  February.  In 
April,  he  returned  home,  feeling  at  his  best,  and, 
as  if  by  premonition,  sought  out  many  of  his 
friends,  new  and  old,  and  took  them  for  last  rides 
in  his  automobile.  A  few  days  before  the  end,  he 
visited  Greenfield  to  attend  the  funeral  of  a  dear 
boyhood  chum,  Almon  Keefer,  of  whom  he  wrote 
in  A  Child-World.  All  Riley's  old  friends  who 


JAMES  WH1TCOMB  RILEY. 

were  still  left  in  Greenfield  were  gathered  there 
and  to  them  he  spoke  words  of  faith  and  good  cheer. 
Almon  Keefer  had  "just  slipped  out"  quietly  and 
peacefully,  he  said,  and  "it  was  beautiful." 

And  as  quietly  and  peacefully  his  own  end  came 
— as  he  had  desired  it,  with  no  dimming  of  the  fac 
ulties  even  to  the  very  close,  nor  suffering,  nor  con 
fronting  death.  This  was  Saturday  night,  July  22, 
1916.  On  Monday  afternoon  and  evening  his  body 
lay  in  state  under  the  dome  of  Indiana's  capitol, 
while  the  people  filed  by,  thousands  upon  thousands. 
Business  men  were  there,  and  schoolgirls,  matrons 
carrying  market  baskets,  mothers  with  little  chil 
dren,  here  and  there  a  swarthy  foreigner,  old  folks, 
too,  and  well-dressed  youths,  here  a  farmer  and  his 
wife,  and  there  a  workman  in  a  blue  jumper  with 
his  hat  in  his  hand,  silent,  inarticulate,  yet  bidding 
his  good-by,  too.  On  the  following  day,  with  only 
his  nearest  and  dearest  about  him,  all  that  was  mor 
tal  of  the  people's  poet  was  quietly  and  simply  laid 
to  rest. 


The  Complete  Works 
of  James  Whitcomb  Riley 

A  BACKWARD  LOOK 

AS  I  sat  smoking,  alone,  yesterday, 
-/A.    And  lazily  leaning  back  in  my  chair, 
Enjoying  myself  in  a  general  way — 
Allowing  my  thoughts  a  holiday 

From  weariness,  toil  and  care, — 
My  fancies — doubtless,  for  ventilation — 

Left  ajar  the  gates  of  my  mind, — 
And  Memory,  seeing  the  situation, 

Slipped  out  in  the  street  of  "Auld  Lang  Syne." — - 

Wandering  ever  with  tireless  feet 

Through  scenes  of  silence,  and  jubilee 
Of  long-hushed  voices ;  and  faces  sweet 
Were  thronging  the  shadowy  side  of  the  street 

As  far  as  the  eye  could  see ; 
Dreaming  again,  in  anticipation, 

The  same  old  dreams  of  our  boyhood's  days 
That  never  come  true,  from  the  vague  sensation 

Of  walking  asleep  in  the  world's  strange  ways. 
23 


24  A   BACKWARD   LOOK 

Away  to  the  house  where  I  was  born ! 

And  there  was  the  selfsame  clock  that  ticked 
From  the  close  of  dusk  to  the  burst  of  morn, 
When  life-warm  hands  plucked  the  golden  corn 

And  helped  when  the  apples  were  picked. 
And  the  "chany  dog"  on  the  mantel-shelf, 

With  the  gilded  collar  and  yellow  eyes, 
Looked  just  as  at  first,  when  I  hugged  myself 

Sound  asleep  with  the  dear  surprise. 

And  down  to  the  swing  in  the  locust-tree, 

Where  the  grass  was  worn  from  the  trampled 

ground, 

And  where  "Eck"  Skinner,  "Old"  Carr,  and  three 
Or  four  such  other  boys  used  to  be 

»"Doin'  sky-scrapers,"  or  "whirlin'  round": 
And  again  Bob  climbed  for  the  bluebird's  nest, 

And  again  "had  shows"  in  the  buggy-shed 
Of  Guymon's  barn,  where  still,  unguessed, 

The  old  ghosts  romp  through  the  best  days  dead  i 

And  again  I  gazed  from  the  old  schoolroom 

With  a  wistful  look,  of  a  long  June  day, 
When  on  my  cheek  was  the  hectic  bloom 
Caught  of  Mischief,  as  I  presume — 

He  had  such  a  "partial"  way, 
It  seemed,  toward  me. — And  again  I  thought 

Of  a  probable  likelihood  to  be 
Kept  in  after  school — for  a  girl  was  caught 

Catching  a  note  from  rne. 


"Again  I  gazed  from  the  old  schoolroom" 


A  BACKWARD  LOOK  25 

And  down  through  the  woods  to  the  swimming- 
hole— 

Where  the  big,  white,  hollow  old  sycamore 

grows, — 

And  we  never  cared  when  the  water  was  cold, 
And  always  "ducked"  the  boy  that  told 

On  the  fellow  that  tied  the  clothes. — 
When  life  went  so  like  a  dreamy  rhyme, 

That  it  seems  to  me  now  that  then 
The  world  was  having  a  jollier  time 

Than  it  ever  will  have  again. 


PHILIPER  FLASH 

"\/OUNG  Philiper  Flash  was  a  promising  lad, 
A  His  intentions  were  good — but  oh,  how  sad 

For  a  person  to  think 

How  the  veriest  pink 

And  bloom  of  perfection  may  turn  out  bad. 
Old  Flash  himself  was  a  moral  man, 
And  prided  himself  on  a  moral  plan, 

Of  a  maxim  as  old 

As  the  calf  of  gold, 
Of  making  that  boy  do  what  he  was  told. 

And  such  a  good  mother  had  Philiper  Flash; 
Her  voice  was  as  soft  as  the  creamy  plash 

Of  the  milky  wave 

With  its  musical  lave 

That  gushed  through  the  holes  of  her  patent  churn- 
dash  ; — 

And  the  excellent  woman  loved  Philiper  so, 
She  could  cry  sometimes  when  he  stumped  his  toe,— 

And  she  stroked  his  hair 

With  such  motherly  care 
When  the  dear  little  angel  learned  to  swear. 

26 


PHILIPER  FLASH  27 

Old  Flash  himself  would  sometimes  say 
That  his  wife  had  "such  a  ridiculous  way, — 

She'd,  humor  that  child 

Till  he'd  soon  be  sp'iled, 
And  then  there'd  be  the  devil  to  pay !" 
And  the  excellent  wife,  with  a  martyr's  look, 
Would  tell  old  Flash  himself  "he  took 

No  notice  at  all 

Of  the  bright-eyed  doll 
Unless  when  he  spanked  him  for  getting  a  fall !" 

Young  Philiper  Flash,  as  time  passed  by, 
Grew  into  "a  boy  with  a  roguish  eye" : 

He  could  smoke  a  cigar, 

And  seemed  by  far 

The  most  promising  youth. — "He's  powerful  sly," 
Old  Flash  himself  once  told  a  friend, 
"Every  copper  he  gets  he's  sure  to  spend — 

And,"  said  he,  "don't  you  know 

If  he  keeps  on  so 
What  a  crop  of  wild  oats  the  boy  will  grow !" 

But  his  dear  good  mother  knew  Philiper's  ways 
So — well,  she  managed  the  money  to  raise ; 

And  old  Flash  himself 

Was  "laid  on  the  shelf," 

(In  the  manner  of  speaking  we  have  nowadays). 
For  "gracious  knows,  her  darling  child, 
If  he  went  without  money  he'd  soon  grow  wild." 

So  Philiper  Flash 


28  PHILIPER  FLASH 

With  a  regular  dash 

"Swung  on  to  the  reins,"  and  went  "slingin'  the 
cash." 

As  old  Flash  himself,  in  his  office  one  day, 
Was  shaving  notes  in  a  barberous  way, 

At  the  hour  of  four 

Death  entered  the  door 
And  shaved  the  note  on  his  life,  they  say. 
And  he  had  for  his  grave  a  magnificent  tomb, 
Though  the  venturous  finger  that  pointed  "Gone 
Home," 

Looked  white  and  cold 

From  being  so  bold, 
As  it  feared  that  a  popular  lie  was  told. 

Young  Philiper  Flash  was  a  man  of  style 
When  he  first  began  unpacking  the  pile 

Of  the  dollars  and  dimes 

Whose  jingling  chimes 

Had  clinked  to  the  tune  of  his  father's  smile ; 
And  he  strewed  his  wealth  with  such  lavish  hand, 
His  rakish  ways  were  the  talk  of  the  land, 

And  gossipers  wise 

Sat  winking  their  eyes 
(A  certain  foreboding  of  fresh  surprise). 

A  "fast  young  man"  was  Philiper  Flash, 
And  wore  "loud  clothes"  and  a  weak  mustache, 
And  "done  the  Park," 


PHILIPER  FLASH  29 

For  an  "afternoon  lark," 
With  a  very  fast  horse  of  "remarkable  dash." 
And  Philiper  handled  a  billiard-cue 
About  as  well  as  the  best  he  knew, 

And  used  to  say 

"He  could  make  it  pay 
By  playing  two  or  three  games  a  day." 

And  Philiper  Flash  was  his  mother's  joy, 
He  seemed  to  her  the  magic  alloy 

That  made  her  glad, 

When  her  heart  was  sad, 
With  the  thought  that  "she  lived  for  her  darling 

boy." 

His  dear  good  mother  wasn't  aware 
How  her  darling  boy  relished  a  "tare." — 

She  said  "one  night 

He  gave  her  a  fright 
By  coming  home  late  and  acting  tight." 

Young  Philiper  Flash,  on  a  winterish  day, 
Was  published  a  bankrupt,  so  they  say — 

And  as  far  as  I  know 

I  suppose  it  was  so, 
For  matters  went  on  in  a  singular  way ; 
His  excellent  mother,  I  think  I  was  told, 
Died  from  exposure  and  want  and  cold ; 

And  Philiper  Flash, 

With  a  horrible  slash, 
Whacked  his  jugular  open  and  went  to  smash. 

I.— 3 


THE  SAME  OLD  STORY 


/"T~VHE  same  old  story  told  again — 

JL  The  maiden  droops  her  head, 
The  ripening  glow  of  her  crimson  cheek 

Is  answering  in  her  stead. 
The  pleading  tone  of  a  trembling  voice 

Is  telling  her  the  way 
He  loved  her  when  his  heart  was  young 

In  Youth's  sunshiny  day : 
The  trembling  tongue,  the  longing  tone, 

Imploringly  ask  why 
They  can  not  be  as  happy  now 

As  in  the  days  gone  by. 
And  two  more  hearts,  tumultuous 

With  overflowing  joy, 
Are  dancing  to  the  music 

Which  that  dear,  provoking  boy 
Is  twanging  on  his  bowstring, 

As,  fluttering  his  wings, 
He  sends  his  love-charged  arrows 

While  merrily  he  sings: 
30 


THE  SAME  OLD  STORY  31 

"Ho !  ho !  my  dainty  maiden, 

It  surely  can  not  be 
You  are  thinking  you  are  master 

Of  your  heart,  when  it  is  me." 
And  another  gleaming  arrow 

Does  the  little  god's  behest, 
And  the  dainty  little  maiden 

Falls  upon  her  lover's  breast. 
"The  same  old  story  told  again," 

And  listened  o'er  and  o'er, 
Will  still  be  new,  and  pleasing,  too, 

Till  "Time  shall  be  no  more." 


TO  A  BOY  WHISTLING 


THE  smiling  face  of  a  happy  boy 
With  its  enchanted  key 
Is  now  unlocking  in  memory 
My  store  of  heartiest  joy. 

And  my  lost  life  again  to-day, 

In  pleasant  colors  all  aglow, 

From  rainbow  tints,  to  pure  white  snow, 
Is  a  panorama  sliding  away. 

The  whistled  air  of  a  simple  tune 

Eddies  and  whirls  my  thoughts  around, 
As  fairy  balloons  of  thistle-down 

Sail  through  the  air  of  June. 

O  happy  boy  with  untaught  grace ! 
What  is  there  in  the  world  to  give 
That  can  buy  one  hour  of  the  life  you  live 

Or  the  trivial  cause  of  your  smiling  face ! 


32 


HEY,  Old  Midsummer !  are  you  here  again, 
With  all  your  harvest-store  of  olden  joys, — 
Vast  overhanging  meadow-lands  of  rain, 
And  drowsy  dawns,  and  noons  when  golden  grain 

Nods  in  the  sun,  and  lazy  truant  boys 
Drift  ever  listlessly  adown  the  day, 
Too  full  of  joy  to  rest,  and  dreams  to  play. 

The  same  old  Summer,  with  the  same  old  smile 
Beaming  upon  us  in  the  same  old  way 

We  knew  in  childhood!    Though  a  weary  while 

Since  that  far  time,  yet  memories  reconcile 
The  heart  with  odorous  breaths  of  clover  hay ; 

And  again  I  hear  the  doves,  and  the  sun  streams 
through 

The  old  barn  door  just  as  it  used  to  do. 

And  so  it  seems  like  welcoming  a  friend — 
An  old,  old  friend,  upon  his  coming  home 
From  some  far  country — coming  home  to  spend 
Long,  loitering  days  with  me:    And  I  extend 
My  hand  in  rapturous  glee : — And  so  you've 

come ! — 

Ho,  I'm  so  glad!    Come  in  and  take  a  chair: 
Well,  this  is  just  like  old  times,  I  declare! 

33 


WHAT   SMITH   KNEW  ABOUT   FARMING 

THERE  wasn't  two  purtier  farms  in  the  state 
Than  the  couple  of  which  I'm  about  to  relate  ;-— 
Jinin'  each  other — belongin'  to  Brown, 
And  jest  at  the  edge  of  a  flourishin'  town. 
Brown  was  a  man,  as  I  understand, 
That  allus  had  handled  a  good  'eal  o'  land, 
And  was  sharp  "s  a  tack  in  drivin*  a  trade — 
For  that's  the  way  most  of  his  money  was  made. 
And  all  the  grounds  and  the  orchards  about 
His  two  pet  farms  was  all  tricked  out 
With  poppies  and  posies 
And  sweet-smellin'  rosies; 
And  hundreds  ••,'  kinds 
Of  all  sorts  o'  vines, 
To  tickle  the  most  horticultural  minds; 
And  little  dwarf  trees  not  as  thick  as  your  wrist 
With  ripe  apples  on  'em  as  big  as  your  fist : 
And  peaches, — Siberian  crabs  and  pears, 
And  quinces — Well !  any  fruit  any  tree  bears ; 
And  th    purtiefst  stream — jest  a-swimmin'  with  fish, 
And — jest  cfmost  everything  heart  could  wish! 
The  purtiest  orch'rds — I  wish  you  could  see 
How  purty  they  was,  f er  I  know  it  'ud  be 
A  regular  treat ! — but  I'll  go  ahead  with 
My  story !    A  man  by  the  name  o'  Smith — 

34 


WHAT  SMITH  KNEW  ABOUT  FARMING    35 

(A  bad  name  to  rhyme, 

But  I  reckon  that  I'm 

Not  goin'  back  on  a  Smith !  nary  time !) 

'At  hadn't  a  soul  of  kin  nor  kith, 

And  more  money  than  he  knowed  what  to  do  with, — 

So  he  comes  a-ridin'  along  one  day, 

And  he  says  to  Brown,  in  his  offhand  way — 

Who  was  trainin'  some  newfangled  vines  round  a 

bay- 
Winder — "Howdy-do — look-a-here — say: 
What'll  you  take  fer  this  property  here? — 
I'm  talkin'  o'  leavin'  the  city  this  year, 
And  I  want  to  be 
Where  the  air  is  free, 

And  I'll  buy  this  place,  if  it  ain't  too  dear!" — 
Well — they  grumbled  and  jawed  aroun' — 
"I  don't  like  to  part  with  the  place,"  says  Brown; 
"Well,"  says  Smith,  a- jerkin'  his  head, 
"That  house  yonder — bricks  painted  red — 
Jest  like  this'n — a  purtier  view — 
Who  is  it  owns  it?"  "That's  mine  too," 
Says  Brown,  as  he  winked  at  a  hole  in  his  shoe, 
"But  I'll  tell  you  right  here  jest  what  I  kin  do: — 
If  you'll  pay  the  figgers  I'll  sell  it  to  you." 
Smith  went  over  and  looked  at  the  place — 
Badgered  with  Brown,  and  argied  the  case — 
Thought  that  Brown's  figgers  was  rather  too  tall, 
But,  findin'  that  Brown  wasn't  goin'  to  fall, 
In  final  agreed, 
So  they  drawed  up  the  deed 


36     WHAT  SMITH  KNEW  ABOUT  FARMING 

Fer  the  farm  and  the  fixtures — the  live  stock  an'  all. 

And  so  Smith  moved  from  the  city  as  soon 

As  he  possibly  could — But  "the  man  in  the  moon" 

Knowed  more'n  Smith  o'  farmin'  pursuits, 

And  jest  to  convince  you,  and  have  no  disputes, 

How  little  he  knowed, 

I'll  tell  you  his  "mode," 

As  he  called  it,  o'  raisin'  "the  best  that  growed," 

In  the  way  o'  potatoes — 

Cucumbers — tomatoes, 

And  squashes  as  lengthy  as  young  alligators. 

'Twas  allus  a  curious  thing  to  me 

How  big  a  fool  a  feller  kin  be 

When  he  gits  on  a  farm  after  leavin'  a  town  !— 

Expectin'  to  raise  himself  up  to  renown, 

And  reap  fer  himself  agricultural  fame, 

By  growin'  of  squashes — without  any  shame — 

As  useless  and  long  as  a  technical  name. 

To  make  the  soil  pure, 

And  certainly  sure, 

He  plastered  the  ground  with  patent  manure. 

He  had  cultivators,  and  double-hoss  plows, 

And  patent  machines  fer  milkin'  his  cows ; 

And  patent  hay-forks — patent  measures  and 

weights, 

And  new  patent  back-action  hinges  fer  gates, 
And  barn  locks  and  latches,  and  such  little  dribs, 
And  patents  to  keep  the  rats  out  o'  the  cribs — 
Reapers  and  mowers, 
And  patent  grain  sowers ; 


WHAT  SMITH  KNEW.  'ABOUT  FARMING      37 

And  drillers 

And  tillers 

And  cucumber  hillers, 

And  horries ; — and  had  patent  rollers  and  scrapers, 

And  took  about  ten  agricultural  papers. 

So  you  can  imagine  how  matters  turned  out : 

But  Brown  didn't  have  not  a  shadder  o'  doubt 

That  Smith  didn't  know  what  he  was  about 

When  he  said  that  "the  old  way  to  farm  was  played 

out." 

But  Smith  worked  ahead, 
And  when  any  one  said 

That  the  old  way  o'  workin'  was  better  instead 
O'  his  "modern  idees,"  he  allus  turned  red, 
And  wanted  to  know 
What  made  people  so 

Infernally  anxious  to  hear  theirselves  crow  ? 
And  guessed  that  he'd  manage  to  hoe  his  own  row. 
Brown  he  come  onc't  and  leant  over  the  fence, 
And  told  Smith  that  he  couldn't  see  any  sense 
In  goin'  to  such  a  tremendous  expense 
Fer  the  sake  o'  such  no-account  experiments : — 
"That'll  never  make  corn ! 
As  shore's  you're  born 
It'll  come  out  the  leetlest  end  of  the  horn !" 
Says  Brown,  as  he  pulled  off  a  big  roastin'-ear 
From  a  stalk  of  his  own 
That  had  tribble  outgrown 
Smith's  poor  yaller  shoots,  and  says  he,  "Looky 

here! 


38    WHAT  SMITH-  KNEW  ABOUT  FARMING 

This  corn  was  raised  in  the  old-fashioned  way, 

And  I  rather  imagine  that  this  corn'll  pay 

Expenses  fer  raisin'  it! — What  do  you  say?" 

Brown  got  him  then  to  look  over  his  crop. — 

His  luck  that  season  had  been  tip-top ! 

And  you  may  surmise 

Smith  opened  his  eyes 

And  let  out  a  look  o'  the  wildest  surprise 

When  Brown  showed  him  punkins  as  big  as  the  lies 

He  was  stuffin'  him  with — about  offers  he's  had 

Fer  his  farm:    "I  don't  want  to  sell  very  bad," 

He  says,  but  says  he, 

"Mr.  Smith,  you  kin  see 

Fer  yourself  how  matters  is  standin'  with  me, 

I  understand  farmin'  and  I'd  better  stay, 

You  know,  on  my  farm ; — I'm  a-makin'  it  pay — 

I  oughtn't  to  grumble! — I  reckon  I'll  clear 

Away  over  four  thousand  dollars  this  year." 

And  that  was  the  reason,  he  made  it  appear, 

Why  he  didn't  care  about  sellin'  his  farm, 

And  hinted  at  his  havin'  done  himself  harm 

In  sellin'  the  other,  and  wanted  to  know 

If  Smith  wouldn't  sell  back  ag'in  to  him. — So 

Smith  took  the  bait,  and  says  he,  "Mr.  Brown, 

I  wouldn't  sell  out  but  we  might  swap  aroun' — 

How'll  you  trade  your  place  fer  mine?" 

(Purty  sharp  way  o'  comin'  the  shine 

Over  Smith!    Wasn't  it?)     Well,  sir,  this  Brown 

Played  out  his  hand  and  brought  Smithy  down — 

Traded  with  him  an',  workin'  it  cute, 


WHAT  SMITH  KNEW  ABOUT  FARMING    39 

Raked  in  two  thousand  dollars  to  boot 
As  slick  as  a  whistle,  an'  that  wasn't  all, — 
He  managed  to  trade  back  ag'in  the  next  fall, — 
And  the  next — and  the  next — as  long  as  Smith 

stayed 

He  reaped  with  his  harvests  an  annual  trade. — 
Why,  I  reckon  that  Brown  must  'a'  easily  made — 
On  an  average — nearly  two  thousand  a  year — 
Together  he  made  over  seven  thousand — clear. — 
Till  Mr.  Smith  found  he  was  losin'  his  health 
In  as  big  a  proportion,  almost,  as  his  wealth ; 
So  at  last  he  concluded  to  move  back  to  town, 
And  sold  back  his  farm  to  this  same  Mr.  Brown 
At  very  low  figgers,  by  gittin'  it  down. 
Further'n  this  I  have  nothin'  to  say 
Than  merely  advisin'  the  Smiths  fer  to  stay 
In  their  grocery  stores  in  flourishin'  towns 
And  leave  agriculture  alone — and  the  Browns. 


A  POET'S  WOOING 

I  woo'd  a  woman  once, 
But  she  was  sharper  than  an  eastern  wind. 

— TENNYSON. 

"\  T  7HAT  may  I  do  to  make  you  glad, 
V  V  To  make  you  glad  and  free, 
Till  your  light  smiles  glance 
And  your  bright  eyes  dance 
Like  sunbeams  on  the  sea  ? 

Read  some  rhyme  that  is  blithe  and  gay 
Of  a  bright  May  morn  and  a  marriage  day  ?" 
And  she  sighed  in  a  listless  way  she  had, — 
"Do  not  read — it  will  make  me  sad  1" 

"What  shall  I  do  to  make  you  glad- 
To  make  you  glad  and  gay, 
Till  your  eyes  gleam  bright 
As  the  stars  at  night 
When  as  light  as  the  light  of  day  ? — 
Sing  some  song  as  I  twang  the  strings 
Of  my  sweet  guitar  through  its  wanderings?" 
And  she  sighed  in  the  weary  way  she  had, — 
"Do  not  sing — it  will  make  me  sad  1" 
•40 


A  POETS  WOOING  41 

"What  can  I  do  to  make  you  glad — 
As  glad  as  glad  can  be, 
Till  your  clear  eyes  seem 
Like  the  rays  that  gleam 
And  glint  through  a  dew-decked  tree  ? — 
Will  it  please  you,  dear,  that  I  now  begin 
A  grand  old  air  on  my  violin  ?" 
And  she  spoke  again  in  the  following  way,— 

"Yes,  oh  yes,  it  would  please  me,  sir ; 
I  would  be  so  glad  you'd  play 

Some  grand  old  march — in  character,— 
And  then  as  you  march  away 
I  will  no  longer  thus  be  sad, 
But  oh,  so  glad — so  glad — so  glad  I" 


MAN'S  DEVOTION 

A  LOVER  said,  "O  Maiden,  love  me  well, 
For  I  must  go  away : 
And  should  another  ever  come  to  tell 
Of  love — What  will  you  say  ?" 

And  she  let  fall  a  royal  robe  of  hair 

That  folded  on  his  arm 
And  made  a  golden  pillow  for  her  there ; 

Her  face — as  bright  a  charm 

As  ever  setting  held  in  kingly  crown — 

Made  answer  with  a  look, 
And  reading  it,  the  lover  bended  down, 

And,  trusting,  "kissed  the  book." 

He  took  a  fond  farewell  and  went  away. 

And  slow  the  time  went  by — 
So  weary — dreary  was  it,  day  by  day 

To  love,  and  wait,  and  sigh, 
42 


MAN'S  DEVOTION  43 

She  kissed  his  pictured  face  sometimes,  and 
said: 

"O  Lips,  so  cold  and  dumb, 
I  would  that  you  would  tell  me,  if  not  dead, 

Why,  why  do  you  not  come?" 

The  picture,  smiling,  stared  her  in  the  face 

Unmoved — e'en  with  the  touch 
Of  tear-drops — hers^- be  jeweling  the  case — 

'Twas  plain — she  loved  him  much. 

And,  thus  she  grew  to  think  of  him  as  gay 

And  joyous  all  the  while, 
And  she  was  sorrowing — "Ah,  welladay!" 

But  pictures  always  smile ! 

And  years — dull  years — in  dull  monotony 

As  ever  went  and  came, 
Still  weaving  changes  on  unceasingly, 

And  changing,  changed  her  najne. 

Was  she  untrue? — She  oftentimes  was  glad 

And  happy  as  a  wife ; 
But  one  remembrance  oftentimes  made  sad 

Her  matrimonial  life. — 

Though  its  few  years  were  hardly  noted,  when 

Again  her  path  was  strown 
With  thorns — the  roses  swept  away  again, 

And  she  again  alone! 


44  MAN'S  DEVOTION 

And  then — alas!  ah  then! — her  lover  came: 

"I  come  to  claim  you  now — 
My  Darling,  for  I  know  you  are  the  same, 

And  I  have  kept  my  vow 

Through  these  long,  long,  long  years,  and  now 
no  more 

Shall  we  asundered  be !" 
She  staggered  back  and,  sinking  to  the  floor, 

Cried  in  her  agony : 

"I  have  been  false !"  she  moaned,  "/  am  not 
true — 

I  am  not  worthy  now, 
Nor  ever  can  I  be  a  wife  to  you — 

For  I  have  broke  my  vow !" 

And  as  she  kneeled  there,  sobbing  at  his  feet, 

He  calmly  spoke — no  sign 
Betrayed  his  inward  agony — "I  count  you  meet 

To  be  a  wife  of  mine !" 

And  raised  her  up  forgiven,  though  untrue ; 

As  fond  he  gazed  on  her, 
She  sighed, — "So  happy!"    And  she  never 
knew 

He  was  a  widower. 


A  BALLAD 

WITH  A  SERIOUS  CONCLUSION 


c 


ROWD  about  me,  little  children — 
Come  and  cluster  'round  my  knee 
While  I  tell  a  little  story 
That  happened  once  with  me. 


My  father  he  had  gone  away 

A-sailing  on  the  foam, 
Leaving  me — the  merest  infant — • 

And  my  mother  dear  at  home ; 

For  my  father  was  a  sailor, 
And  he  sailed  the  ocean  o'er 

For  full  five  years  ere  yet  again 
He  reached  his  native  shore. 

And  I  had  grown  up  rugged 
And  healthy  day  by  day, 

Though  I  was  but  a  puny  babe 
When  father  went  away. 

Poor  mother  she  would  kiss  me 
And  look  at  me  and  sigh 

So  strangely,  oft  I  wondered 
And  would  ask  the  reason  why. 

45 


46  A  BALLAD 

And  she  would  answer  sadly, 
Between  her  sobs  and  tears, — 

"You  look  so  like  your  father, 
Far  away  so  many  years!" 

And  then  she  would  caress  me 
And  brush  my  hair  away, 

And  tell  me  not  to  question, 
But  to  run  about  my  play. 

Thus  I  went  playing  thoughtfully— 
For  that  my  mother  said, — 

"You  look  so  like  your  father!" 
Kept  ringing  in  my  head. 

So,  ranging  once  the  golden  sands 
That  looked  out  on  the  sea, 

I  called  aloud,  "My  father  dear, 
Come  back  to  ma  and  me !" 

Then  I  saw  a  glancing  shadow 
On  the  sand,  and  heard  the  shriek 

Of  a  sea-gull  flying  seaward, 
And  I  heard  a  gruff  voice  speak  :— 

"Ay,  ay,  my  little  shipmate, 
I  thought  I  heard  you  hail ; 

Were  you  trumpeting  that  sea-gull, 
Or  do  you  see  a  sail  ?" 


A  BALLAD  47 

And  as  rough  and  gruff  a  sailor 

As  ever  sailed  the  sea 
Was  standing  near  grotesquely 

And  leering  dreadfully. 

I  replied,  though  I  was  frightened,'  • 

"It  was  my  father  dear 
I  was  calling  for  across  the  sea — 

I  think  he  didn't  hear." 

And  then  the  sailor  leered  again 

In  such  a  frightful  way, 
And  made  so  many  faces 

I  was  little  loath  to  stay : 

But  he  started  fiercely  toward  me— 

Then  made  a  sudden  halt 
And  roared,  "/  think  he  heard  you  1H 

And  turned  a  somersault. 

Then  a  wild  fear  overcame  me, 
And  I  flew  off  like  the  wind, 

Shrieking  "Mother!" — and  the  sailor 
Just  a  little  way  behind ! 

And  then  my  mother  heard  me, 
And  I  saw  her  shade  her  eyes, 

Looking  toward  me  from  the  doorway, 
Transfixed  with  pale  surprise 


18  'A  BALLAD 

For  a  moment — then  her  features 
Glowed  with  all  their  wonted  charms 

As  the  sailor  overtook  me, 
And  I  fainted  in  her  arms. 

When  I  awoke  to  reason 
I  shuddered  with  affright 

Till  I  felt  my  mother's  presence 
With  a  thrill  of  wild  delight — 

Till,  amid  a  shower  of  kisses 
Falling  glad  as  summer  rain, 

A  muffled  thunder  rumbled, — 
"Is  he  coming  'round  again?" 

Then  I  shrieked  and  clung  unto  her, 
While  her  features  flushed  and  burned 

As  she  told  me  it  was  father 
From  a  foreign  land  returned. 


I  said — when  I  was  calm  again, 
And  thoughtfully  once  more 

Had  dwelt  upon  my  mother's  words 
Of  just  the  day  before, — 

"I  don't  look  like  my  father, 
As  you  told  me  yesterday — 

I  know  I  don't — or  father 
Would  have  run  the  other  way." 


THE  OLD  TIMES  WERE  THE  BEST 

FRIENDS,  my  heart  is  half  aweary 
Of  its  happiness  to-night : 
Though  your  songs  are  gay  and  cheery, 

And  your  spirits  feather-light, 
There's  a  ghostly  music  haunting 

Still  the  heart  of  every  guest 
And  a  voiceless  chorus  chanting 
That  the  Old  Times  were  the  best. 

CHORUS 

All  about  is  bright  and  pleasant 
With  the  sound  of  song  and  jest, 

Yet  a  feeling's  ever  present 
That  the  Old  Times  were  the  best. 


49, 


A  SUMMER  AFTERNOON 

A  LANGUID  atmosphere,  a  lazy  breeze, 
JL~\     With  labored  respiration,  moves  the  wheat 
From  distant  reaches,  till  the  golden  seas 
Break  in  crisp  whispers  at  my  feet. 

My  book,  neglected  of  an  idle  mind, 

Hides  for  a  moment  from  the  eyes  of  men; 

Or,  lightly  opened  by  a  critic  wind, 
Affrightedly  reviews  itself  again. 

Off  through  the  haze  that  dances  in  the  shine 
The  warm  sun  showers  in  the  open  glade, 

The  forest  lies,  a  silhouette  design 
Dimmed  through  and  through  with  shade. 

A  dreamy  day;  and  tranquilly  I  lie 

At  anchor  from  all  storms  of  mental  strain ; 

With  absent  vision,  gazing  at  the  sky, 
"Like  one  that  hears  it  rain." 
50 


51 


The  Katydid,  so  boisterous  last  night, 
Clinging,  inverted,  in  uneasy  poise, 

Beneath  a  wheat-blade,  has  forgotten  quite 
If  "Katy  did  or  didn't"  make  a  noise. 

The  twitter,  sometimes,  of  a  wayward  bird 
That  checks  the  song  abruptly  at  the  sound, 

And  mildly,  chiding  echoes  that  have  stirred, 
Sink  into  silence,  all  the  more  profound. 

And  drowsily  I  hear  the  plaintive  strain 
Of  some  poor  dove    .    .     .    Why,  I  can 

scarcely  keep 

My  heavy  eyelids — there  it  is  again — 
"Coo-coo !"— I  mustn't— "Coo-coo !"— f all 
asleep ! 


AT  LAST 

A  DARK,  tempestuous  night ;  the  stars  shut  in 
With  shrouds  of  fog;  an  inky,  jet-black  blot 
The  firmament ;  and  where  the  moon  has  been 
An  hour  agone  seems  like  the  darkest  spot. 
The  weird  wind — furious  at  its  demon  game — 
Rattles  one's  fancy  like  a  window-frame. 

A  care-worn  face  peers  out  into  the  dark, 

And  childish  faces — frightened  at  the  gloom — 

Grow  awed  and  vacant  as  they  turn  to  mark 
The  father's  as  he  passes  through  the  room: 

The  gate  latch  clatters,  and  wee  baby  Bess 

Whispers,  "The  doctor's  tummin'  now,  I  dess!" 

The  father  turns ;  a  sharp,  swift  flash  of  pain 
Flits  o'er  his  face :  "Amanda,  child !  I  said 

A  moment  since — I  see  I  must  again — 
Go  take  your  little  sisters  off  to  bed ! 

There,  Effie,  Rose,  and  Clara  mustn't  cry!" 

"I  tan't  he'p  it— I'm  fyaid  'at  mama'll  die  1" 

52 


'AT  LAST  53 

What  are  his  feelings,  when  this  man  alone 
Sits  in  the  silence,  glaring  in  the  grate 

That  sobs  and  sighs  on  in  an  undertone 
As  stoical — immovable  as  Fate, 

While  muffled  voices  from  the  sick  one's  room 

Come  in  like  heralds  of  a  dreaded  doom? 

The  door-latch  jingles :  in  the  doorway  stands 
The  doctor,  while  the  draft  puffs  in  a  breath — 

The  dead  coals  leap  to  life,  and  clap  their  hands, 
The  flames  flash  up.    A  face  as  pale  as  death 

Turns  slowly — teeth  tight  clenched,  and  with  a  look 

The  doctor,  through  his  specs,  reads  like  a  book. 

"Come,   brace   up,    Major!" — "Let   me   know   the 
worst !" 

"W'y  you're  the  biggest  fool  I  ever  saw — 
Here,  Major — take  a  little  brandy  first — 

There !    She's  a  boy — I  mean  he  is — hurrah !" 
"Wake  up  the  other  girls — and  shout  for  joy — 
Eureka  is  his  name — I've  found  A  BOY !" 


FARMER  WHIFFLE— BACHELOR 

IT'S  a  mystery  to  see  me — a  man  o'  fifty-four, 
Who's  lived  a  cross  old  bachelor  f  er  thirty  year' 

and  more — 
A-lookin'  glad  and  smilin' !    And  they's  none  o'  you 

can  say 

That  you  can  guess  the  reason  why  I  feel  so  good 
to-day ! 

I  must  tell  you  all  about  it !    But  I'll  have  to  deviate 
A  little  in  beginnin',  so's  to  set  the  matter  straight 
As  to  how  it  comes  to  happen  that  I  never  took  a 

wife — 

Kindo'  "crawfish"  from  the  Present  to  the  Spring 
time  of  my  life ! 

I  was  brought  up  in  the  country:    Of  a  family  of 

five — 
Three  brothers  and  a  sister — I'm  the  only  one 

alive, — 
Fer  they  all  died  little  babies;  and  'twas  one  o' 

Mother's  ways, 
You  know,  to  want  a  daughter;  so  she  took  a  girl 

to  raise. 

54 


FARMER   WHIPPLE— BACHELOR  55 

The  sweetest  little  thing  she  was,  with  rosy  cheeks, 

and  fat — 
We  was  little  chunks  o'  shavers  then  about  as  high 

as  that! 
But  someway  we  sort  o'  suited-like !  and  Mother 

she'd  declare 
She  never  laid  her  eyes  on  a  more  lovin'  pair 

Than  we  was!    So  we  growed  up  side  by  side  fer 

thirteen  year', 
And  every  hour  of  it  she  growed  to  me  more 

dear ! — 

W'y,  even  Father's  dyin',  as  he  did,  I  do  believe 
Warn't  more  affectin'  to  me  than  it  was  to  see  her 

grieve ! 

I  was  then  a  lad  o'  twenty ;  and  I  felt  a  flash  o' 

pride 

In  thinkin'  all  depended  on  me  now  to  pervide 
Fer  Mother  and  fer  Mary;  and  I  went  about  the 

place 
With  sleeves  rolled  up — and  workin',  with  a  mighty 

smilin'  face. — 

Fer  somepin'  else  was  workin' !  but  not  a  word  I  said 
Of  a  certain  sort  o'  notion  that  was  runnin'  through 

my  head, — 
"Some  day  I'd  maybe  marry,  and  a  brother's  love 

was  one 
Thing — a  lover's  was  another !"  was  the  way  the 

notion  run  I 


56  FARMER  WH1PPLE— BACHELOR 

I  remember  onc't  in  harvest,  when  the  "cradle-in* " 

was  done, 
(When  the  harvest  of  my  summers  mounted  up  to 

twenty-one), 
I  was  ridin'  home  with  Mary  at  the  closin'  o'  the 

day — • 
A-chawin'  straws  and  thinkin',  in  a  lover's  lazy 

way! 

And  Mary's  cheeks  was  burnin'  like  the  sunset 

down  the  lane: 
I  noticed  she  was  thinkin',  too,  and  ast  her  to 

explain. 
Well — when  she  turned  and  kissed  me,  with  her 

arms  around  me — law! 
I'd  a  bigger  load  o'  Heaven  than  I  had  a  load  o' 

straw  1 

I  don't  p'tend  to  learnin',  but  I'll  tell  you  what's  a 

fac', 
They's  a  mighty  truthful  sayin'  somers  in  a* 

almanac — 
Er  somers — 'bout  "puore  happiness" — perhaps 

some  folks'll  laugh 
At  the  idy — "only  lastin'  jest  two  seconds  and  a 

half."— 

But  it's  jest  as  true  as  preachin'l — fer  that  was  a 

sister's  kiss, 

And  a  sister's  lovin'  confidence  a-tellin'  to  me 

this:— 


FARMER  WHIPPLE— BACHELOR  57 

"She  was  happy,  bein'  promised  to  the  son  o' 

Farmer  Brown." — 
And  my  feelin's  struck  a  pardnership  with  sunset 

and  went  down! 

I  don't  know  how  I  acted,  and  I  don't  know  what 

I  said, — 
Fer  my  heart  seemed  jest  a-turnin'  to  an  ice-cold 

lump  o'  lead; 
And  the  hosses  kind  o'  glimmered  before  me  in  the 

road, 
And  the  lines  fell  from  my  fingers — And  that  was 

all  I  knowed — 

Fer — well,  I  don't  know  how  long — They's  a  dim 

rememberence 
Of  a  sound  o'  snortin'  horses,  and  a  stake-and- 

ridered  fence 
A-whizzin'  past,  and  wheat-sheaves  a-dancin'  in  the 

air, 
And  Mary  screamin'  "Murder!"  and  a-runnin'  up 

to  where 

I  was  layin'  by  the  roadside,  and  the  wagon  upside 

down 
A-leanin'  on  the  gate-post,  with  the  wheels 

a-whirlin'  roun'! 
And  I  tried  to  raise  and  meet  her,  but  I  couldn't, 

with  a  vague 
Sort  o'  notion  comin'  to  me  that  I  had  a  broken  leg. 


58  FARMER  WHIFFLE— BACHELOR 

Well,  the  women  missed  me  through  it ;  but  many  a 

time  I'd  sigh 

As  I'd  keep  a-gittin'  better  instid  o'  goin'  to  die, 
And  wonder  what  was  left  me  worth  livin'  fer 

below, 

When  the  girl  I  loved  was  married  to  another, 
don't  you  know ! 

And  my  thoughts  was  as  rebellious  as  the  folks 

was  good  and  kind 
When  Brown  and  Mary  married — Railly  must  'a' 

been  my  mind 
Was  kindo'  out  o'  kilter! — fer  I  hated  Brown,  you 

see, 
Worse'n  pisen — and  the  feller  whittled  crutches  out 

fer  me — 

And  done  a  thousand  little  ac's  o'  kindness  and 
respec' — 

And  me  a-wishin'  all  the  time  that  I  could  break  his 
neck! 

My  relief  was  like  a  mourner's  when  the  funeral  is 
done 

When  they  moved  to  Illinois  in  the  Fall  o'  Forty- 
one. 

Then  I  went  to  work  in  airnest — I  had  nothin*  much 

in  view 
But  to  drownd  out  rickollections — and  it  kep'  me 

busy,  too! 


FARMER   WHIPPLE— BACHELOR  59 

But  I  slowly  thrived  and  prospered,  tel  Mother  used 

to  say 
She  expected  yit  to  see  me  a  wealthy  man  some  day. 

Then  I'd  think  how  little  money  was,  compared  to 

happiness — 
And  who'd  be  left  to  use  it  when  I  died  I  couldn't 

guess ! 
But  I've  still  kep'  speculatin'  and  a-gainin'  year  by 

year, 
Tel  I'm  payin'  half  the  taxes  in  the  county,  mighty 

near! 

Well ! — A  year  ago  er  better,  a  letter  comes  to  hand 
Astin'  how  I'd  like  to  dicker  fer  some  Illinois  land — 
"The  feller  that  had  owned  it,"  it  went  ahead  to 

state, 
"Had  jest  deceased,   insolvent,   leavin'   chance   to 

speculate," — 

And  then  it  closed  by  sayin'  that  I'd  "better  come 

and  see." — 
I'd  never  been  West,  anyhow — a'most  too  wild  fer 

me, 

I'd  allus  had  a  notion ;  but  a  lawyer  here  in  town 
Said,  I'd  find  myself  mistakend  when  I  come  to  look 

around. 

So  I  bids  good-by  to  Mother,  and  I  jumps  aboard 

the  train, 
A-thinkin'  what  I'd  bring  her  when  I  come  back 

home  again — 


60  FARMER   WHIFFLE— BACHELOR 

And  ef  she'd  had  an  idy  what  the  present  was  to  be, 
I  think  it's  more'n  likely  she'd  'a'  went  along  with 
me! 


Cars  is  awful  tejus  ridin',  fer  all  they  go  so  fast! 
But  finally  they  called  out  my  stoppin'-place  at  last : 
And  that  night,  at  the  tavern,  I  dreamp'  I  was  a 

train 
O'  cars,  and  skeered  at  somepin',  runnin'  down  a 

country  lane! 

Well,  in  the  morning  airly — after  huntin'  up  the 

man — 
The  lawyer  who  was  wantin'  to  swap  the  piece  o' 

land — 

We  started  fer  the  country ;  and  I  ast  the  history 
Of  the  farm — its  former  owner — and  so  forth, 

etcetery ! 

And — well — it  was  interim' — I  su'prised  him,  I 
suppose, 

By  the  loud  and  frequent  manner  in  which  I  blowed 
my  nose! — 

But  his  su'prise  was  greater,  and  it  made  him  won 
der  more, 

When  I  kissed  and  hugged  the  widder  when  she 
met  us  at  the  door ! — 


' 

"  -.11  i. 


"They'd  never  seed  their  grandma — and  I  fetched 
'em  home  with  me" 


FARMER    WHIFFLE— BACHELOR  61 

It  was  Mary:  .  .  .  They's  a  feelin'  a-hidin'  down  in 

here — 
Of  course  I  can't  explain  it,  ner  ever  make  it 

clear. — 
It  was  with  us  in  that  meetin',  I  don't  want  you  to 

f  ergit ! 
And  it  makes  me  kind  o'  nervous  when  I  think  about 

it  yit! 

I  bought  that  farm,  and  deeded  it,  afore  I  left  the 

town, 
With  "title  clear  to  mansions  in  the  skies,"  to  Mary 

Brown ! 
And  fu'thermore,  I  took  her  and  the  childern — fer 

you  see, 
They'd  never  seed  their  Grandma — and  I  fetched 

'em  home  with  me. 

So  now  you've  got  an  idy  why  a  man  o'  fifty-four, 
Who's  lived  a  cross  old  bachelor  fer  thirty  year'  and 

more, 
Is  a-lookin'  glad  and  smilin'! — And  I've  jest  come 

into  town 
To  git  a  pair  o'  license  fer  to  marry  Mary  Brown. 

I.— 5 


MY  JOLLY  FRIEND'S  SECRET 

A  I,  friend  of  mine,  how  goes  it 
Since  you've  taken  you  a  mate  ? — • 
Your  smile,  though,  plainly  shows  it 

Is  a  very  happy  state ! 
Dan  Cupid's  necromancy ! 

You  must  sit  you  down  and  dine, 
And  lubricate  your  fancy 

With  a  glass  or  two  of  wine. 

And  as  you  have  "deserted," 

As  my  other  chums  have  done, 
While  I  laugh  alone  diverted, 

As  you  drop  off  one  by  one — 
And  I've  remained  unwedded, 

Till — you  see — look  here — that  I'm, 
In  a  manner,  "snatched  bald-headed" 

By  the  sportive  hand  of  Time ! 

I'm  an  "old  'un !"  yes,  but  wrinkles 

Are  not  so  plenty,  quite, 
As  to  cover  up  the  twinkles 

Of  the  boy— ain't  I  right? 
62 


MY  JOLLY  FRIEND'S  SECRET  63 

Yet,  there  are  ghosts  of  kisses 
Under  this  mustache  of  mine 

My  mem'ry  only  misses 

When  I  drown  'em  out  with  wine. 

From  acknowledgment  so  ample, 

You  would  hardly  take  me  for 
What  I  am — a  perfect  sample 

Of  a  "jolly  bachelor"; 
Not  a  bachelor  has  being 

When  he  laughs  at  married  life 
But  his  heart  and  soul's  agreeing 

That  he  ought  to  have  a  wife  I 

Ah,  ha !  old  chum,  this  claret, 

Like  Fatima,  holds  the  key 
Of  the  old  Blue-Beardish  garret 

Of  my  hidden  mystery ! 
Did  you  say  you'd  like  to  listen? 

Ah,  my  boy!  the  "Sad  No  More!" 
And  the  tear-drops  that  will  glisten — 

Turn  the  catch  upon  the  door, 

And  sit  you  down  beside  me, 

And  put  yourself  at  ease — 
I'll  trouble  you  to  slide  me 

That  wine  decanter,  please; 
The  path  is  kind  o'  mazy 

Where  my  fancies  have  to  go, 
And  my  heart  gets  sort  o'  lazy 

On  the  journey — don't  you  know? 


64  MY  JOLLY  FRIEND'S  SECRET 

Let  me  see — when  I  was  twenty — 

It's  a  lordly  age,  my  boy, 
When  a  fellow's  money's  plenty, 

And  the  leisure  to  enjoy — 
And  a  girl — with  hair  as  golden 

As — that;  and  lips — well — quite 
As  red  as  this  I'm  holdin' 

Between  you  and  the  light. 

And  eyes  and  a  complexion — 

Ah,  heavens ! — le'-me-see — 
Well, — just  in  this  connection, — 

Did  you  lock  that  door  for  me? 
Did  I  start  in  recitation 

My  past  life  to  recall? 
Well,  that's  an  indication 

I  am  purty  tight — that's  all ! 


THE  SPEEDING  OF  THE  KING'S  SPITE 

A    KING — estranged  from  his  loving  Queen 
/JL  By  a  foolish  royal  whim — 
Tired  and  sick  of  the  dull  routine 

Of  matters  surrounding  him — 
Issued  a  mandate  in  this  wise : — 

"The  dower  of  my  daughter's  hand 
I  will  give  to  him  who  holds  this  prize, 

The  strangest  thing  in  the  land." 

But  the  King,  sad  sooth !  in  this  grim  decree 

Had  a  motive  low  and  mean; — 
'Twas  a  royal  piece  of  chicanery 

To  harry  and  spite  the  Queen ; 
For  King  though  he  was,  and  beyond  compare. 

He  had  ruled  all  things  save  one — 
Then  blamed  the  Queen  that  his  only  heir 

Was  a  daughter — not  a  son. 

The  girl  had  grown,  in  the  mother's  care, 
Like  a  bud  in  the  shine  and  shower 

That  drinks  of  the  wine  of  the  balmy  air 
Till  it  blooms  into  matchless  flower; 


65 


66     THE  SPEEDING  OF  THE  KING'S  SPITE 

Her  waist  was  the  rose's  stem  that  bore 
The  flower — and  the  flower's  perfume — 

That  ripens  on  till  it  bulges  o'er 
With  its  wealth  of  bud  and  bloom. 

And  she  had  a  lover — lowly  sprung, — 

But  a  purer,  nobler  heart 
Never  spake  in  a  courtlier  tongue 

Or  wooed  with  a  dearer  art: 
And  the  fair  pair  paled  at  the  King's  decree ; 

But  the  smiling  Fates  contrived 
To  have  them  wed,  in  a  secrecy 

That  the  Queen  herself  connived — 

While  the  grim  King's  heralds  scoured  the  land 

And  the  countries  roundabout, 
Shouting  aloud,  at  the  King's  command, 

A  challenge  to  knave  or  lout, 
Prince  or  peasant, — "The  mighty  King 

Would  have  ye  understand 
That  he  who  shows  him  the  strangest  thing 

Shall  have  his  daughter's  hand !" 

And  thousands  flocked  to  the  royal  throne, 

Bringing  a  thousand  things 
Strange  and  curious; — One,  a  bone — 

The  hinge  of  a  fairy's  wings ; 
And  one,  the  glass  of  a  mermaid  queen, 

Gemmed  with  a  diamond  dew, 
Where,  down  in  its  reflex,  dimly  seen, 

Her  face  smiled  out  at  you. 


THE  SPEEDING  OF  THE  KING'S  SPITE    67 

One  brought  a  cluster  of  some  strange  date, 

With  a  subtle  and  searching  tang 
That  seemed,  as  you  tasted,  to  penetrate 

The  heart  like  a  serpent's  fang; 
And  back  you  fell  for  a  spell  entranced, 

As  cold  as  a  corpse  of  stone, 
And  heard  your  brains,  as  they  laughed  and 
danced 

And  talked  in  an  undertone. 

One  brought  a  bird  that  could  whistle  a  tune 

So  piercingly  pure  and  sweet, 
That  tears  would  fall  from  the  eyes  of  the  moon 

In  dewdrops  at  its  feet; 
And  the  winds  would  sigh  at  the  sweet  refrain, 

Till  they  swooned  in  an  ecstacy, 
To  waken  again  in  a  hurricane 

Of  riot  and  jubilee. 

One  brought  a  lute  that  was  wrought  of  a  shell 

Luminous  as  the  shine 
Of  a  new-born  star  in  a  dewy  dell, — 

And  its  strings  were  strands  of  wine 
That  sprayed  at  the  Fancy's  touch  and  fused, 

As  your  listening  spirit  leant 
Drunken  through  with  the  airs  that  oozed 

From  the  o'ersAveet  instrument. 

One  brought  a  tablet  of  ivory 

Whereon  no  thing  was  writ, — 
But,  at  night — and  the  dazzled  eyes  would  see 

Flickering  lines  o'er  it, — 


68     THE  SPEEDING  OF   THE  KING'S  SPITE 

And  each,  as  you  read  from  the  magic  tome, 

Lightened  and  died  in  flame, 
And  the  memory  held  but  a  golden  poem 

Too  beautiful  to  name. 

Till  it  seemed  all  marvels  that  ever  were  known 

Or  dreamed  of  under  the  sun 
Were  brought  and  displayed  at  the  royal  throne, 

And  put  by,  one  by  one; — 
Till  a  graybeard  monster  came  to  the  King — 

Haggard  and  wrinkled  and  old — 
And  spread  to  his  gaze  this  wondrous  thing, — 

A  gossamer  veil  of  gold. — 

Strangely  marvelous — mocking  the  gaze 

Like  a  tangle  of  bright  sunshine, 
Dipping  a  million  glittering  rays 

In  a  baptism  divine: 
And  a  maiden,  sheened  in  this  gauze  attire — 

Sifting  a  glance  of  her  eye — 
Dazzled  men's  souls  with  a  fierce  desire 

To  kiss  and  caress  her  and — die. 

And  the  grim  King  swore  by  his  royal  beard 

That  the  veil  had  won  the  prize, 
While  the  gray  old  monster  blinked  and  leered 

With  his  lashless,  red-rimmed  eyes, 
As  the  fainting  form  of  the  princess  fell, 

And  the  mother's  heart  went  wild, 
Throbbing  and  swelling  a  muffled  knell 

For  the  dead  hopes  of  her  child. 


THE  SPEEDING  OF   THE  KING'S  SPITE     i 

But  her  clouded  face  with  a  faint  smile  shone, 

As  suddenly,  through  the  throng, 
Pushing  his  way  to  the  royal  throne, 

A  fair  youth  strode  along, 
While  a  strange  smile  hovered  about  his  eyes, 

As  he  said  to  the  grim  old  King : — 
"The  veil  of  gold  must  lose  the  prize ; 

For  /  have  a  stranger  thing." 

He  bent  and  whispered  a  sentence  brief ; 

But  the  monarch  shook  his  head, 
With  a  look  expressive  of  unbelief — 

"It  can't  be  so,"  he  said ; 
"Or  give  me  proof-  and  I,  the  King, 

Give  you  my  daughter's  hand, — 
For  certes  THAT  is  a  stranger  thing — 

The  strangest  thing  in  the  land!" 

Then  the  fair  youth,  turning,  caught  the  Queen 

In  a  rapturous  caress, 
While  his  lithe,  form  towered  in  lordly  mien, 

As  he  said  in  a  brief  address : — 
"My  fair  bride's  mother  is  this ;  and,  lo, 

As  you  stare  in  your  royal  awe, 
By  this  pure  kiss  do  I  proudly  show 

A  love  for  a  mother-in-lazv!" 

Then  a  thaw  set  in  the  old  King's  mood, 

And  a  sweet  Spring  freshet  came 
Into  his  eyes,  and  his  heart  renewed 

Its  love  for  the  favored  dame: 


70     THE  SPEEDING  OF  THE  KING'S  SPITE, 

But  often  he  has  been  heard  to  declare 
That  "he  never  could  clearly  see 

How,  in  the  deuce,  such  a  strange  affair 
Could  have  ended  so  happily!" 


JOB  WORK 

"T  T  7RITE  me  a  rhyme  of  the  present  time" , 
V  V      And  the  poet  took  his  pen 

And  wrote  such  lines  as  the  miser  minds 
Hide  in  the  hearts  of  men. 

He  grew  enthused,  as  the  poets  used 
When  their  fingers  kissed  the  strings 

Of  some  sweet  lyre,  and  caught  the  fire 
True  inspiration  brings, 

And  sang  the  song  of  a  nation's  wrong — 

Of  the  patriot's  galling  chain, 
And  the  glad  release  that  the  angel,  Peace, 

Has  given  him  again. 

He  sang  the  lay  of  religion's  sway, 
Where  a  hundred  creeds  clasp  hands 

And  shout  in  glee  such  a  symphony 
That  the  whole  world  understands. 
71 


72  705   WORK 

He  struck  the  key  of  monopoly, 
And  sang  of  her  swift  decay, 

And  traveled  the  track  of  the  railway  back 
With  a  blithesome  roundelay — 

Of  the  tranquil  bliss  of  a  true  love  kiss ; 

And  painted  the  picture,  too, 
Of  the  wedded  life,  and  the  patient  wife, 

And  the  husband  fond  and  true ; 

And  sang  the  joy  that  a  noble  boy 

Brings  to  a  father's  soul, 
Who  lets  the  wine  as  a  mocker  shine 

Stagnated  in  the  bowl. 

And  he  stabbed  his  pen  in  the  ink  again, 
And  wrote,  with  a  writhing  frown, 

"This  is  the  end."    "And  now,  my  friend, 
You  may  print  it — upside  down!" 


PRIVATE  THEATRICALS 

A  QUITE  convincing  axiom 
Is,  "Life  is  like  a  play" ; 
For,  turning  back  its  pages  some 
Few  dog-eared  years  away, 
I  find  where  I 
Committed  my 
Love-tale — with  brackets  where  to  sigh. 

I  feel  an  idle  interest 

To  read  again  the  page; 
I  enter,  as  a  lover  dressed, 
At  twenty  years  of  age, 
And  play  the  part 
With  throbbing  heart, 
And  all  an  actor's  glowing  art 

And  she  who  plays  my  Lady-love 

Excels ! — Her  loving  glance 
Has  power  her  audience  to  move — 
I  am  her  audience. — 
Her  acting  tact, 
To  tell  the  fact, 

"Brings  down  the  house"  in  every  act. 
73 


74  PRIVATE   THEATRICALS 

And  often  we  defy  the  curse 

Of  storms  and  thunder-showers, 
To  meet  together  and  rehearse 
This  little  play  of  ours — 
I  think,  when  she 
"Makes  love"  to  me, 
She  kisses  very  naturally ! 

...... 

Yes;  it's  convincing — rather — 

That  "Life  is  like  a  play" : 
I  am  playing  "Heavy  Father" 
In  a  "Screaming  Farce"  to-day, 
That  so  "brings  down 
The  house,"  I  frown, 
And  fain  would  "ring  the  curtain  down/ 


PLAIN  SERMONS 

I  SAW  a  man — and  envied  him  beside — 
Because  of  this  world's  goods  he  had  great 
store ; 

But  even  as  I  envied  him,  he  died, 
And  left  me  envious  of  him  no  more. 

I  saw  another  man — and  envied  still — 
Because  he  was  content  with  frugal  lot; 

But  as  I  envied  him,  the  rich  man's  will 
Bequeathed  him  all,  and  envy  I  forgot 

Yet  still  another  man  I  saw,  and  he 
I  envied  for  a  calm  and  tranquil  mind 

That  nothing  fretted  in  the  least  degree — 
Until,  alas !  I  found  that  he  was  blind. 

What  vanity  is  envy!  for  I  find 

I  have  been  rich  in  dross  of  thought,  and  poor 
In  that  I  was  a  fool,  and  lastly  blind — 

For  never  having  seen  myself  before  1 
75 


"TRADIN'  JOE" 

I'M  one  o'  these  cur'ous  kind  o'  chaps 
You  think  you  know  when  you  don't, 

perhaps ! 

I  hain't  no  fool — ner  I  don't  p'tend 
To  be  so  smart  I  could  rickommend 
Myself  fer  a  congcrssman,  my  friend ! — 
But  I'm  kind  o'  betwixt-and-between,  you 

know, — 

One  o'  these  fellers  'at  folks  call  "slow." 
And  I'll  say  jest  here  I'm  kind  o'  queer 
Regardin'  things  'at  I  see  and  hear, — 
Fer  I'm  thick  o'  hearin'  sometimes,  and 
It's  hard  to  git  me  to  understand ; 
But  other  times  it  hain't,  you  bet ! 
Fer  I  don't  sleep  with  both  eyes  shet ! 

I've  swapped  a  power  in  stock,  and  so 
The  neighbers  calls  me  "Tradin'  Joe" — 
And  I'm  goin'  to  tell  you  'bout  a  trade, — 
And  one  o'  the  best  I  ever  made : 

Folks  has  gone  so  fur's  to  say 
'At  I'm  well  fixed,  in  a  worldly  way, 
And  bein'  so,  and  a  widoiver, 
It's  not  su'prisin',  as  you'll  infer, 
I'm  purty  handy  among  the  sect — 
76 


"TRADIN'  JOE"  77 

Widders  especially,  rickollect! 

And  I  won't  deny  that  along  o'  late 

I've  hankered  a  heap  fer  the  married  state — 

But  some  way  o'  'nother  the  longer  we  wait 

The  harder  it  is  to  discover  a  mate. 

Marshall  Thomas, — a  friend  o'  mine, 

Doin'  some  in  the  tradin'  line, 

But  a'most  too  young  to  know  it  all — 

On'y  at  picnics  er  some  ball! — 

Says  to  me,  in  a  banterin'  way, 

As  we  was  a-loadin'  stock  one  day, — 

"You're  a-huntin'  a  wife,  and  I  want  you  to  see 

My  girl's  mother,  at  Kankakee ! — 

She  hain't  over  forty — good-lookin'  and  spry, 

And  jest  the  woman  to  fill  your  eye ! 

And  I'm  a-goin'  there  Sund'y, — and  now," 

says  he, 

"I  want  to  take  you  along  with  me; 
And  you  marry  her,  and,"  he  says,  "by  'shaw ! 
You'll  hev  me  fer  yer  son-in-law !" 
I  studied  a  while,  and  says  I,  "Well,  I'll 
First  have  to  see  ef  she  suits  my  style; 
And  ef  she  does,  you  kin  bet  your  life 
Your  mother-in-law  will  be  my  wife !" 

Well,  Sund'y  come ;  and  I  fixed  up  some — 
Putt  on  a  collar — I  did,  by  gum ! — 
Got  down  my  "plug,"  and  my  satin  vest — 
(You  wouldn't  know  me  to  see  me  dressed  !— 

I.— 6 


78  "TRADIN'  JOE" 

But  any  one  knows  ef  you  got  the  clothes 
You  kin  go  in  the  crowd  wher'  the  best  of  'em 

goes!) 

And  I  greeced  my  boots,  and  combed  my  hair 
Keerfully  over  the  bald  place  there ; 
And  Marshall  Thomas  and  me  that  day 
Eat  our  dinners  with  Widder  Gray 
And  her  girl  Han'!    *    *    * 

Well,  jest  a  glance 
O'  the  widder's  smilin'  countenance, 
A-cuttin'  up  chicken  and  big  pot-pies, 
Would  make  a  man  hungry  in  Paradise ! 
And  passin'  p'serves  and  jelly  and  cake 
'At  would  make  an  angel's  appetite  ache! — 
Pourin'  out  coffee  as  yaller  as  gold — 
Twic't  as  much  as  the  cup  could  hold — 
La !  it  was  rich ! — And  then  she'd  say, 
"Take  some  o'  this!"  in  her  coaxin'  way, 
Tell  ef  I'd  been  a  hoss  I'd  'a'  foundered,  shore, 
And  jest  dropped  dead  on  her  white-oak  floor! 

Well,  the  way  I  talked  would  'a'  done  you  good, 
Ef  you'd  'a'  been  there  to  'a'  understood ; 
Tel  I  noticed  Hanner  and  Marshall,  they 
Was  a-noticin'  me  in  a  cur'ous  way; 
So  I  says  to  myse'f,  says  I,  "Now,  Joe, 
The  best  thing  fer  you  is  to  jest  go  slow!" 
And  I  simmered  down,  and  let  them  do 
The  bulk  o'  the  talkin'  the  evening  through. 


"TRADIN'  JOE"  79 

And  Marshall  was  still  in  a  talkative  gait 
When  he  left,  that  evening — tolable  late. 
"How  do  you  like  her  ?"  he  says  to  me ; 
Says  I,  ''She  suits,  to  a  't-y-Tee' !" 
And  then  I  ast  how  matters  stood 
With  him  in  the  opposite  neighberhood  ? 
"Bully !"  he  says ;  "I  ruther  guess 
I'll  finally  git  her  to  say  the  'yes.' 
I  named  it  to  her  to-night,  and  she 
Kind  o'  smiled,  and  said  'she'd  see' — 
And  that's  a  purty  good  sign !"  says  he : 
"Yes,"  says  I,  "you're  ahead  o'  me!" 
And  then  he  laughed,  and  said,  "Go  in!" 
And  patted  me  on  the  shoulder  ag'in. 

Well,  ever  sense  then  I've  been  ridin'  a  good 
Deal  through  the  Kankakee  neighberhood ; 
And  I  make  it  convenient  sometimes  to  stop 
And  hitch  a  few  minutes,  and  kind  o'  drop 
In  at  the  widder's,  and  talk  o'  the  crop 
And  one  thing  o'  'nother.    And  week  afore  last 
The  notion  struck  me,  as  I  drove  past, 
I'd  stop  at  the  place  and  state  my  case — 
Might  as  well  do  it  at  first  as  last ! 

I  felt  first-rate ;  so  I  hitched  at  the  gate, 
And  went  up  to  the  house;  and,  strange  to 

relate, 

Marshall  Thomas  had  dropped  in,  too. — 
"Glad  to  see  you,  sir,  how  do  you  do  ?" 
He  says,  says  he !    Well — it  sounded  Queer: 


80  "TRADIN'  JOE" 

And  when  Han'  told  me  to  take  a  cheer, 
Marshall  got  up  and  putt  out  o'  the  room — 
And  motioned  his  hand  f  er  the  ividder  to  come. 
I  didn't  say  nothin'  fer  quite  a  spell, 
But  thinks  I  to  myse'f,  "There's  a  dog  in  the 

well !" 

And  Han'  she  smiled  so  cur'ous  at  me — 
Says  I,  "What's  up?"  And  she  says,  says  she, 
"Marshall's  been  at  me  to  marry  ag'in, 
And  I  told  him  'no,'  jest  as  you  come  in." 
Well,  somepin'  o'  'nother  in  that  girl's  voice 
Says  to  me,  "Joseph,  here's  your  choice  1" 
And  another  minute  her  guileless  breast 
Was  lovin'ly  throbbin'  ag'in  my  vest! — 
And  then  I  kissed  her,  and  heerd  a  smack 
Come  like  a'  echo  a-flutterin'  back, 
And  we  looked  around,  and  in  full  view 
Marshall  was  kissin'  the  widder,  too! 
Well,  we  all  of  us  laughed,  in  our  glad  su'prise, 
Tel  the  tears  come  a-streamin'  out  of  our  eyes ! 
And  when  Marsh  said  "  'Twas  the  squarest 

trade 

That  ever  me  and  him  had  made," 
We  both  shuck  hands,  'y  jucks!  and  swore 
We'd  stick  together  ferevermore. 
And  old  Squire  Chipman  tuck  us  the  trip : 
And  Marshall  and  me's  in  pardnership ! 


DOT  LEEDLE  BOY 

OT'S  a  leedle  Gristmas  story 
Dot  I  told  der  leedle  folks— 
Und  I  vant  you  stop  dot  laughin' 

Und  grackin'  funny  jokes ! — 
So  help  me  Peter-Moses! 

Ot's  no  time  for  monkey-shine, 
Ober  I  vast  told  you  somedings 
Of  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine ! 

Ot  vas  von  cold  Vinter  vedder, 

Ven  der  snow  vas  all  about — 
Dot  you  have  to  chop  der  hatchet 

Eef  you  got  der  sauerkraut! 
Und  der  cheekens  on  der  hind  leg 

Vas  standin'  in  der  shine 
Der  sun  shmile  out  dot  morning 

On  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine. 

He  vas  yoost  a  leedle  baby 

Not  bigger  as  a  doll 
Dot  time  I  got  acquaintet — 

Ach !  you  ought  to  heard  'im  squall  !- 
81 


82  DOT  'LEEDLE  BOY 

I  grackys !  dot's  der  moosic 
Ot  make  me  feel  so  fine 

Ven  first  I  vas  been  marriet — > 
Oh,  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine ! 

He  look  yoost  like  his  fader ! — 

So,  ven  der  vimmen  said, 
"Vot  a  purty  leedle  baby !" 

Katrina  shake  der  head.     .    .    . 
I  dink  she  must  'a'  notice 

Dot  der  baby  vas  a-gryin', 
Und  she  cover  up  der  blankets 

Of  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine. 

Vel,  ven  he  vas  got  bigger, 

Dot  he  grawl  und  bump  his  nose, 
Und  make  der  table  over, 

Und  molasses  on  his  glothes — 
Dot  make  'im  all  der  sveeter, — 

So  I  say  to  my  Katrine, 
"Better  you  vas  quit  a-shpankin' 

Dot  leedle  boy  of  mine !" 

No  more  he  vas  older 

As  about  a  dozen  months 
He  speak  der  English  language 

Und  der  German — bote  at  vonce! 
Und  he  dringk  his  glass  of  lager 

Like  a  Londsman  fon  der  Rhine — 
Und  I  klingk  my  glass  togeder 

Mit  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine ! 


83 


I  vish  you  could  V  seen  id — 

Ven  he  glimb  up  on  der  chair 
Und  shmash  der  lookin'-glasses 

Ven  he  try  to  comb  his  hair 
Mit  a  hammer ! — Und  Katrina 

Say,  "Dot's  an  ugly  sign !" 
But  I  laugh  und  vink  my  ringers 

At  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine. 

But  vonce,  dot  Vinter  morning, 

He  shlip  out  in  der  snow 
Mitout  no  stockin's  on  'im. — 

He  say  he  "vant  to  go 
Und  fly  some  mit  der  birdies !" 

Und  ve  give  'im  medi-cine 
Ven  he  catch  der  "parrygoric" — 

Dot  leedle  boy  of  mine ! 

Und  so  I  set  und  nurse  'im, 

Vile  der  Gristmas  vas  come  roun', 
Und  I  told  'im  'bout  "Kriss  Kringle," 

How  he  come  der  chimbly  down : 
Und  I  ask  'im  eef  he  love  'im 

Eef  he  bring  'im  someding  fine  ? 
"Nicht  besser  as  mein  fader," 

Say  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine. — 

Und  he  put  his  arms  aroun'  me 
Und  hug  so  close  und  tight, 

I  hear  der  gclock  a-tickin' 

All  der  balance  of  der  night !     .    . 


84  DOT  LEEDLE  BOY 

Someding-  make  me  feel  so  funny 
Ven  I  say  to  my  Katrine, 

"Let  us  go  und  fill  der  stockin's 
Of  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine." 

Veil. — Ve  buyed  a  leedle  horses 

Dot  you  pull  'im  mit  a  shtring, 
Und  a  leedle  fancy  jay-bird — 

Eef  you  vant  to  hear  'im  sing 
You  took  'im  by  der  topknot 

Und  yoost  blow  in  behine — 
Und  dot  make  much  spectakel 

For  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine ! 

Und  gandies,  nuts  und  raizens — 

Und  I  buy  a  leedle  drum 
Dot  I  vant  to  hear  'im  rattle 

Ven  der  Gristmas  morning  come 
Und  a  leedle  shmall  tin  rooster 

Dot  vould  crow  so  loud  und  fine 
Ven  he  sqveeze  'im  in  der  morning, 

Dot  leedle  boy  of  mine ! 

Und — vile  ve  vas  a-fixin' — 

Dot  leedle  boy  vake  out ! 
I  t'ought  he  been  a-dreamin' 

"Kriss  Kringle"  vas  about, — 
For  he  say — "Dot's  him! — I  see  'im 

Mit  der  shtars  dot  make  der  shine!' 
Und  he  yoost  keep  on  a-gryin' — 

Dot  leedle  boy  of  mine, — 


DOT  LEEDLE  BOY  85 

Und  gottin'  vorse  und  vorser — 

Und  tumble  on  der  bed ! 
So — ven  der  doctor  seen  id, 

He  kindo'  shake  his  head, 
Und  feel  his  pulse — und  visper, 

"Der  boy  is  a-dyin'." 
You  dink  I  could  believe  id? — 

Dot  leedle  boy  of  mine? 

I  told  you,  friends — dot's  someding, 

Der  last  time  dot  he  speak 
Und  say,  "Goot-by ,   Kriss  Kringle!" 

— Dot  make  me  feel  so  veak 
I  yoost  kneel  down  und  drimble, 

Und  bur-sed  out  a-gryin', 
"Mein  Gott,  mein  Gott  in  Himmel! — 

Dot  leedle  boy  of  mine!" 


Der  sun  don't  shine  dot  Gristmas ! 

.  .  .  Eef  dot  leedle  boy  vould  liff'd — 
No  deefer-en' !  for  Heaven  vas 

His  leedle  Gristmas  gift! 
Und  der  rooster,  und  der  gandy, 

Und  me — und  my  Katrine — 
Und  der  jay-bird — is  a-vaiting 

For  dot  leedle  boy  of  mine. 


I  SMOKE  MY  PIPE 

I  CAN'T  extend  to  every  friend 
In  need  a  helping  hand — 
No  matter  though  I  wish  it  so, 
Tis  not  as  Fortune  planned; 
But  haply  may  I  fancy  they 

Are  men  of  different  stripe 
Than  others  think  who  hint  and  wink,- 
And  so — I  smoke  my  pipe ! 

A  golden  coal  to  crown  the  bowl — 

My  pipe  and  I  alone, — 
I  sit  and  muse  with  idler  views 

Perchance  than  I  should  own : — 
It  might  be  worse  to  own  the  purse 

Whose  glutted  bowels  gripe 
In  little  qualms  of  stinted  alms ; 

And  so  I  smoke  my  pipe. 

And  if  inclined  to  moor  my  mind 
And  cast  the  anchor  Hope, 

A  puff  of  breath  will  put  to  death 
The  morbid  misanthrope 
86 


I  SMOKE  MY  PIPE  87 

That  lurks  inside — as  errors  hide 

In  standing  forms  of  type 
To  mar  at  birth  some  line  of  worth ; 

And  so  I  smoke  my  pipe. 

The  subtle  stings  misfortune  flings 

Can  give  me  little  pain 
When  my  narcotic  spell  has  wrought 

This  quiet  in  my  brain: 
When  I  can  waste  the  past  in  taste 

So  luscious  and  so  ripe 
That  like  an  elf  I  hug  myself ; 

And  so  I  smoke  my  pipe. 

And  wrapped  in  shrouds  of  drifting  cloud? 

I  watch  the  phantom's  flight, 
Till  alien  eyes  from  Paradise 

Smile  on  me  as  I  write : 
And  I  forgive  the  wrongs  that  live, 

As  lightly  as  I  wipe 
Away  the  tear  that  rises  here; 

And  so  I  smoke  my  pipe. 


RED  RIDING-HOOD 

SWEET  little  myth  of  the  nursery  story — 
Earliest  love  of  mine  infantile  breast, 
Be  something  tangible,  bloom  in  thy  glory 

Into  existence,  as  thou  art  addressed ! 
Hasten !  appear  to  me,  guileless  and  good — 
Thou  are  so  dear  to  me,  Red  Riding-Hood! 

Azure-blue  eyes,  in  a  marvel  of  wonder, 
Over  the  dawn  of  a  blush  breaking  out ; 

Sensitive  nose,  with  a  little  smile  under 
Trying  to  hide  in  a  blossoming  pout — 

Couldn't  be  serious,  try  as  you  would, 

Little  mysterious   Red   Riding-Hood! 

Hah!  little  girl,  it  is  desolate,  lonely, 
Out  in  this  gloomy  old  forest  of  Life ! — 

Here  are  not  pansies  and  buttercups  only — 
Brambles  and  briers  as  keen  as  a  knife ; 

And  a  Heart,  ravenous,  trails  in  the  wood 

For  the  meal  have  he  must, — Red  Riding- 
Hood! 


IF  I  KNEW  WHAT  POETS  KNOW 

IF  I  knew  what  poets  know, 
Would  I  write  a  rhyme 
Of  the  buds  that  never  blow 

In  the  summer-time? 
Would  I  sing  of  golden  seeds 
Springing  up  in  ironweeds  ? 
And  of  rain-drops  turned  to  snow, 
If  I  knew  what  poets  know  ? 

Did  I  know  what  poets  do, 

Would  I  sing  a  song 
Sadder  than  the  pigeon's  coo 

When  the  days  are  long? 
Where  I  found  a  heart  in  pain, 
I  would  make  it  glad  again ; 
And  the  false  should  be  the  true, 
Did  I  know  what  poets  do. 

If  I  knew  what  poets  know, 

I  would  find  a  theme 
Sweeter  than  the  placid  flow 

Of  the  fairest  dream : 
I  would  sing  of  love  that  lives 
On  the  errors  it  forgives; 
And  the  world  would  better  grow 
If  I  knew  what  poets  know. 


AN  OLD  SWEETHEART  OF  MINE 

A^  old  sweetheart  of  mine ! — Is  this  her  presence 
here  with  me, 

Or  but  a  vain  creation  of  a  lover's  memory? 
A  fair,  illusive  vision  that  would  vanish  into  air 
Dared  I  even  touch  the  silence  with  the  whisper  of 
a  prayer? 

Nay,  let  me  then  believe  in  all  the  blended  false  and 

true — 
The  semblance  of  the  old  love  and  the  substance  of 

the  new, — 
The  then  of  changeless  sunny  days — the  now  of 

shower  and  shine — 
But  Love  forever  smiling — as  that  old  sweetheart 

of  mine. 

This  ever-restful  sense  of  home,  though  shouts  ring 
in  the  hall. — 

The  easy  chair — the  old  book-shelves  and  prints 
along  the  wall ; 

The  rare  Habanas  in  their  box,  or  gaunt  church 
warden-stem 

That  often  wags,  above  the  jar,  derisively  at  them. 

As  one  who  cons  at  evening  o'er  an  album,  all  alone, 
And  muses  on  the  faces  of  the  friends  that  he  has 
known, 

SO 


'So  I  turn  the  leaves  of  Fancy,  till,  in  shadowy  design, 
I  find  the  smiling  features  of  an  old  sweetheart  of  mine" 


AN  OLD  SWEETHEART  OF  MINE          91 

So  I  turn  the  leaves  of  Fancy,  till,  in  shadowy  de 
sign, 

I  find  the  smiling  features  of  an  old  sweetheart  of 
mine. 

The  lamplight  seems  to  glimmer  with  a  flicker  of 

surprise, 
As  I  turn  it  low — to  rest  me  of  the  dazzle  in  my 

eyes, 
And  light  my  pipe  in  silence,  save  a  sigh  that  seems 

to  yoke 
Its  fate  with  my  tobacco  and  to  vanish  with  the 

smoke. 

Tis  a  fragrant  retrospection, — for  the  loving 
thoughts  that  start 

Into  being  are  like  perfume  from  the  blossom  of  the 
heart ; 

And  to  dream  the  old  dreams  over  is  a  luxury  di 
vine — 

When  my  truant  fancies  wander  with  that  old 
sweetheart  of  mine. 

Though  I  hear  beneath  my  study,  like  a  fluttering  of 

wings, 
The  voices  of  my  children  and  the  mother  as  she 

sings — 
I  feel  no  twinge  of  conscience  to  deny  me  any 

theme 
When  Care  has  cast  her  anchor  in  the  harbor  of  a 

dream — 


92  AN  OLD   SWEETHEART  OF  MINE 

In  fact,  to  speak  in  earnest,  I  believe  it  adds  a 
charm 

To  spice  the  good  a  trifle  with  a  little  dust  of 
harm, — 

For  I  find  an  extra  flavor  in  Memory's  mellow 
wine 

That  makes  me  drink  the  deeper  to  that  old  sweet 
heart  of  mine. 


O  Childhood-days  enchanted !    O  the  magic  of  the 

Spring ! — 
With  all  green  boughs  to  blossom  white,  and  all 

bluebirds  to  sing ! 
When  all  the  air,  to  toss  and  quaff,  made  life  a 

jubilee 
And  changed  the  children's  song  and  laugh  to 

shrieks  of  ecstasy. 

With  eyes  half  closed  in  clouds  that  ooze  from  lips 
that  taste,  as  well, 

The  peppermint  and  cinnamon,  I  hear  the  old 
School  bell, 

And  from  "Recess"  romp  in  again  from  "Black- 
man's"  broken  line, 

To  smile,  behind  my  "lesson,"  at  that  old  sweet 
heart  of  mine. 


A  face  of  lily-beauty,  with  a  form  of  airy  grace, 
Floats  out  of  my  tobacco  as  the  Genii  from  the  vase ; 


AN   OLD   SWEETHEART  OF  MINE          93 

And  I  thrill  beneath  the  glances  of  a  pair  of  azure 

eyes 
As  glowing  as  the  summer  and  as  tender  as  the 

skies. 

I  can  see  the  pink  sunbonnet  and  the  little  checkered 

dress 
She  wore  when  first  I  kissed  her  and  she  answered 

the  caress 
With  the  written  declaration  that,  "as  surely  as  the 

vine 
Grew  'round  the  stump,"  she  loved  me — that  old 

sweetheart  of  mine. 

Again  I  made  her  presents,  in  a  really  helpless 
way,— 

The  big  "Rhode  Island  Greening" — I  was  hungry, 
too,  that  day  ! — 

But  I  follow  her  from  Spelling,  with  her  hand  be 
hind  her — so — 

And  I  slip  the  apple  in  it — and  the  Teacher  doesn't 
know! 

I  give  my  treasures  to  her — all, — my  pencil — blue- 
and-red ; — 

And,  if  little  girls  played  marbles,  mine  should  all 
be  hers,  instead! 

But  she  gave  me  her  photograph,  and  printed  "Ever 
Thine" 

Across  the  back — in  blue-and-red — that  old  sweet 
heart  of  mine ! 
1—7 


94  AN  OLD  SWEETHEART  OF  MINE 

And  again  I  feel  the  pressure  of  her  slender  little 

hand, 
As  we  used  to  talk  together  of  the  future  we  had 

planned, — 
When  I  should  be  a  poet,  and  with  nothing  else 

to  do 
But  write  the  tender  verses  that  she  set  the  music 

to    ... 

When  we  should  live  together  in  a  cozy  little  cot 
Hid  in  a  nest  of  roses,  with  a  fairy  garden-spot, 
Where  the  vines  were  ever  fruited,  and  the  weather 

ever  fine, 

And  the  birds  were  ever  singing  for  that  old  sweet 
heart  of  mine. 

When  I  should  be  her  lover  forever  and  a  day, 
And  she  my  faithful  sweetheart  till'the  golden  hair 

was  gray ; 
And  we  should  be  so  happy  that  when  cither's  lips 

were  dumb 
They  would  not  smile  in  Heaven  till  the  other's  kiss 

had  come. 

But,  ah!  my  dream  is  broken  by  a  step  upon  the 

stair, 
And  the  door  is  softly  opened,  and — my  wife  is 

standing  there : 
Yet  with  eagerness  and  rapture  all  my  visions  I 

resign,— 
To  greet  the  living  presence  of  that  old  sweetheart 

of  mine. 


SQUIRE  HAWKINS'S  STORY 

I  HAIN'T  no  hand  at  tellin'  tales, 
Er  spinnin'  yarns,  as  the  sailors  say ; 
Someway  o'  'nother,  language  fails 
To  slide  fer  me  in  the  oily  way 
That  lazvyers  has;  and  I  wisht  it  would, 
Fer  I've  got  somepin'  that  I  call  good; 
But  bein'  only  a  country  squire, 
I've  learned  to  listen  and  admire, 
Ruther  preferrin'  to  be  addressed 
Than  talk  myse'f — but  I'll  do  my  best : — 

Old  Jeff  Thompson — well,  I'll  say, 
Was  the  clos'test  man  I  ever  saw! — 
Rich  as  cream,  but  the  porest  pay, 
And  the  meanest  man  to  work  fer — La! 
I've  knowed  that  man  to  work  one  "hand"- 
Fer  little  er  nothin',  you  understand — 
From  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  light 
Tel  eight  ?nd  nine  o'clock  at  night, 
And  then  find  fault  with  his  appetite ! 
He'd  drive  all  over  the  neighberhood 
95 


96  SQUIRE  HAWKINS'S  STORY 

To  miss  the  place  where  a  toll-gate  stood, 
And  slip  in  town,  by  some  old  road 
That  no  two  men  in  the  county  knowed, 
With  a  jag  o'  wood,  and  a  sack  o'  wheat, 
That  wouldn't  burn  and  you  couldn't  eat ! 
And  the  trades  he'd  make,  '11  I  jest  de-clare, 
Was  enough  to  make  a  preacher  swear ! 
And  then  he'd  hitch,  and  hang  about 
Tel  the  lights  in  the  toll-gate  was  blowed  out, 
And  then  the  turnpike  he'd  turn  in 
And  sneak  his  way  back  home  ag'in ! 

Some  folks  hint,  and  I  make  no  doubt, 
That  that's  what  wore  his  old  wife  out — 
Toilin'  away  from  day  to  day 
And  year  to  year,  through  heat  and  cold, 
Uncomplainin' — the  same  old  way 
The  martyrs  died  in  the  days  of  old ; 
And  a-clingin',  too,  as  the  martyrs  done, 
To  one  fixed  faith,  and  her  only  one, — 
Little  Patience,  the  sweetest  child 
That  ever  wept  unrickonciled, 
Er  felt  the  pain  and  the  ache  and  sting 
That  only  a  mother's  death  can  bring. 

Patience  Thompson! — I  think  that  name 
Must  'a'  come  from  a  power  above, 
Fer  it  seemed  to  fit  her  jest  the  same 
As  a  gaiter  would,  er  a  fine  kid  glove! 
And  to  see  that  girl,  with  all  the  care 


SQUIRE  HAWKINS'S  STORY  97 

Of  the  household  on  her — I  de-clare 
It  was  audacious,  the  work  she'd  do, 
And  the  thousand  plans  that  she'd  putt 

through ; 

And  sing  like  a  medder-lark  all  day  long, 
And  drowned  her  cares  in  the  joys  o'  song; 
And  laugh  sometimes  tel  the  farmer's  "hand,'' 
Away  fur  off  in  the  fields,  would  stand 
A-listenin',  with  the  plow  half  drawn, 
Tel  the  coaxin'  echoes  called  him  on; 
And  the  furries  seemed,  in  his  dreamy  eyes, 
Like  foot-paths  a-leadin'  to  Paradise, 
As  off  through  the  hazy  atmosphere 
The  call  fer  dinner  reached  his  ear. 

Now  love's  as  cunnin'  a  little  thing 

As  a  hummin'-bird  upon  the  wing, 

And  as  liable  to  poke  his  nose 

Jest  where  folks  would  least  suppose, — 

And  more'n  likely  build  his  nest 

Right  in  the  heart  you'd  leave  unguessed, 

And  live  and  thrive  at  your  expense — 

At  least,  that's  my  experience. 

And  old  Jeff  Thompson  often  thought, 

In  his  se'fish  way,  that  the  quiet  John 

Was  a  stiddy  chap,  as  a  farm-hand  ought 

To  always  be, — fer  the  airliest  dawn 

Found  John  busy — and  "easy,"  too, 

Whenever  his  wages  would  fall  due! — 

To  sum  him  up  with  a  final  touch, 


98  SQUIRE  HAWKINS'S  STORY 

He  eat  so  little  and  worked  so  much, 
That  old  Jeff  laughed  to  hisse'f  and  said, 
"He  makes  me  money  and  aims  his  bread  !'J 

But  John,  fer  all  of  his  quietude, 
Would  sometimes  drap  a  word  er  so 
That  none  but  Patience  understood, 
And  none  but  her  was  meant  to  know ! — 
Maybe  at  meal-times  John  would  say, 
As  the  sugar-bowl  come  down  his  way, 
"Thanky,  no ;  my  coffee's  sweet 
Enough  fer  me!"  with  sich  conceit, 
She'd  know  at  once,  without  no  doubt, 
He  meant  because  she  poured  it  out ; 
And  smile  and  blush,  and  all  sich  stuff, 
And  ast  ef  it  was  "strong  enough?" 
And  git  the  answer,  neat  and  trim, 
"It  couldn't  be  too  'strong'  fer  him!" 

And  so  things  went  fer  'bout  a  year, 

Tel  John,  at  last,  found  pluck  to  go 

And  pour  his  tale  in  the  old  man's  ear — 

And  ef  it  had  been  hot  lead,  I  know 

It  couldn't  'a'  raised  a  louder  fuss, 

Ner  'a'  riled  the  old  man's  temper  wuss ! 

He  jest  lit  in,  and  cussed  and  swore, 

And  lunged  and  rared,  and  ripped  and  tore, 

And  told  John  jest  to  leave  his  door, 

And  not  to  darken  it  no  more ! 

But  Patience  cried,  with  eyes  all  wet, 

"Remember,  John,  and  don't  ferget, 


99 


Whatever  comes,  I  love  you  yet!" 
But  the  old  man  thought,  in  his  se'fish  way, 
"I'll  see  her  married  rich  some  day ; 
And  that,"  thinks  he,  "is  money  fer  me — 
And  my  will's  law,  as  it  ought  to  be !" 

So  when,  in  the  course  of  a  month  er  so, 
A  widower,  with  a  farm  er  two, 
Comes  to  Jeff's,  w'y,  the  folks,  you  know, 
Had  to  talk— as  the  f olks'll  do : 
It  was  the  talk  of  the  neighberhood — 
Patience  and  John,  and  their  affairs; — 
And  this  old  chap  with  a  few  gray  hairs 
Had  "cut  John  out,"  it  was  understood. 
And  some  folks  reckoned  "Patience,  too, 
Knowed  what  she  was  a-goin'  to  do 
lt  was  like  her — la !  indeed ! — 
All  she  loved  was  dollars  and  cents — 
Like  old  Jeff — and  they  saw  no  need 
Fer  John  to  pine  at  her  negligence!" 

But  others  said,  in  a  kinder  way, 

They  missed  the  songs  she  used  to  sing — 

They  missed  the  smiles  that  used  to  play 

Over  her  face,  and  the  laughin'  ring 

Of  her  glad  voice — that  everything 

Of  her  old  se'f  seemed  dead  and  gone, 

And  this  was  the  ghost  that  they  gazed  on! 

Tel  finally  it  was  noised  about 
There  was  a  weddin'  soon  to  be 


100  SQUIRE  HAWKINS'S  STORY 

Down  at  Jeff's ;  and  the  "cat  was  out" 
Shore  enough! — 'LI  the  Jee-mun-nee! 
It  riled  me  when  John  told  me  so, — 
Fer  /  was  a  friend  o'  John's,  you  know ; 
And  his  trimblin'  voice  jest  broke  in  two — • 
As  a  feller's  voice'll  sometimes  do. — 
And  I  says,  says  I,  "Ef  I  know  my  biz — 
And  I  think  I  know  what  jestice  is, — 
I've  read  some  law — and  I'd  advise 
A  man  like  you  to  wipe  his  eyes 
And  square  his  jaws  and  start  ag'in, 
Fer  jestice  is  a-goin'  to  win!" 
And  it  wasn't  long  tel  his  eyes  had  cleared 
As  blue  as  the  skies,  and  the  sun  appeared 
In  the  shape  of  a  good  old-fashioned  smile 
That  I  hadn't  seen  fer  a  long,  long  while. 

So  we  talked  on  fer  a'  hour  er  more, 
And  sunned  ourselves  in  the  open  door, — 
Tel  a  hoss-and-buggy  down  the  road 
Come  a-drivin'  up,  that  I  guess  John  knowed, — 
Fer  he  winked  and  says,  "I'll  dessappear — 
They'd  smell  a  mice  ef  they  saw  me  here !" 
And  he  thumbed  his  nose  at  the  old  gray  mare, 
And  hid  hisse'f  in  the  house  somewhere. 

Well. — The  rig  drove  up :  and  I  raised  my  head 

As  old  Jeff  hollered  to  me  and  said 

That  "him  and  his  old  friend  there  had  come 

To  see  ef  the  squire  was  at  home." 

.  ,  .  I  told  'em  "I  was ;  and  I  aimed  to  be 


SQUIRE   HAWKINS'S  STORY  101 

At  every  chance  of  a  weddin'-f  ee !" 
And  then  I  laughed — and  they  laughed,  too, — 
Fer  that  was  the  object  they  had  in  view. 
"Would  I  be  on  hands  at  eight  that  night?" 
They  ast ;  and  's-I,  "You're  mighty  right, 
/'//  be  on  hand !"    And  then  I  bu'st 
Out  a-laughin'  my  very  wu'st, — 
And  so  did  they,  as  they  wheeled  away 
And  drove  to'rds  town  in  a  cloud  o'  dust. 
Then  I  shet  the  door,  and  me  and  John 
Laughed  and  laughed,  and  jest  laughed  on, 
Tel  Mother  drapped  her  specs,  and  by 
Jeewhillikers!    I  thought  she'd  die! — 
And  she  couldn't  V  told,  I'll  bet  my  hat, 
What  on  earth  she  was  laughin'  at ! 

But  all  o'  the  fun  o'  the  tale  hain't  done ! — 

Fer  a  drizzlin'  rain  had  jest  begun, 

And  a-havin'  'bout  four  mile'  to  ride, 

I  jest  concluded  I'd  better  light 

Out  fer  Jeff's  and  save  my  hide, — 

Fer  it  was  a-goin'  to  storm,  that  night! 

So  we  went  down  to  the  barn,  and  John 

Saddled  my  beast,  and  I  got  on ; 

And  he  told  me  somepin'  to  not  ferget, 

And  when  I  left,  he  was  laughin'  yet. 

And,  'proachin'  on  to  my  journey's  end, 
The  great  big  draps  o'  the  rain  come  down, 
And  the  thunder  growled  in  a  way  to  lend 


RIVERSIDE 


102  SQUIRE  HAWKINS'S  STORY 

An  awful  look  to  the  lowerin'  frown 
The  dull  sky  wore ;  and  the  lightnin'  glanced 
Tel  my  old  mare  jest  more'n  pranced, 
And  tossed  her  head,  and  bugged  her  eyes 
To  about  four  times  their  natchurl  size, 
As  the  big  black  lips  of  the  clouds  'ud  drap 
Out  some  oath  of  a  thunderclap, 
And  threaten  on  in  an  undertone 
That  chilled  a  feller  clean  to  the  bone ! 

But  I  struck  shelter  soon  enough 

To  save  myse'f.    And  the  house  was  jammed 

With  the  women-folks,  and  the  weddin'- 

stuff:— 

A  great,  long  table,  fairly  crammed 
With  big  pound-cakes — and  chops  and  steaks — • 
And  roasts  and  stews — and  stumick-aches 
Of  every  fashion,  form,  and  size, 
From  twisters  up  to  punkin-pies! 
And  candies,  oranges,  and  figs, 
And  reezins, — all  the  "whilligigs" 
And  "jim-cracks"  that  the  law  allows 
On  sich  occasions ! — Bobs  and  bows 
Of  gigglin'  girls,  with  corkscrew  curls, 
And  fancy  ribbons,  reds  and  blues, 
And  "beau-ketchers"  and  "curliques" 
To  beat  the  world!    And  seven  o'clock 
Brought  old  Jeff ; — and  brought — the  groom, — 
With  a  sideboard-collar  on,  and  stock 
That  choked  him  so,  he  hadn't  room 
To  swaller  in,  er  even  sneeze, 


SQUIRE  HAWKINS'S  STORY  103 

Er  clear  his  th'oat  with  any  ease 

Er  comfort — and  a  good  square  cough 

Would  saw  his  Adam's  apple  off ! 

But  as  fer  Patience — My!  Oomh-oow/z/— 

I  never  saw  her  look  so  sweet! — 

Her  face  was  cream  and  roses,  too ; 

And  then  them  eyes  o'  heavenly  blue 

Jest  made  an  angel  all  complete ! 

And  when  she  split  'em  up  in  smiles 

And  splintered  'em  around  the  room, 

And  danced  acrost  and  met  the  groom, 

And  laughed  out  loud — It  kind  o'  spiles 

My  language  when  I  come  to  that — 

Fer,  as  she  laid  away  his  hat, 

Thinks  I,  "The  papers  hid  inside 

Of  that  said  hat  must  make  a  bride 

A  happy  one  fer  all  her  life, 

Er  else  a  wrecked  and  wretched  wife!" 

And,  someway,  then,  I  thought  of  John, — 

Then  looked  towards  Patience.  .  .  .  She  was 

gone! — 

The  door  stood  open,  and  the  rain 
Was  dashin'  in ;  and  sharp  and  plain 
Above  the  storm  we  heerd  a  cry — 
A  ringin',  laughin',  loud  "Good-by !" 
That  died  away,  as  fleet  and  fast 
A  boss's  hoofs  went  splashin'  past! 
And  that  was  all.    Twas  done  that  quick  I  .  .  . 
You've  heerd  o'  fellers  "lookin'  sick"  ? 
I  wisht  you'd  seen  the  groom  jest  then — 


104  SQUIRE  HAWKINS'S  STORY 

I  wisht  you'd  seen  them  two  old  men, 

With  starin'  eyes  that  fairly  glared 

At  one  another,  and  the  scared 

And  empty  faces  of  the  crowd, — 

I  wisht  you  could  'a'  been  allowed 

To  jest  look  on  and  see  it  all, — 

And  heerd  the  girls  and  women  bawl 

And  wring  their  hands ;  and  heerd  old  Jeff 

A-cussin'  as  he  swung  hisse'f 

Upon  his  hoss,  who  champed  his  bit 

As  though  old  Nick  had  holt  of  it : 

And  cheek  by  jowl  the  two  old  wrecks 

Rode  off  as  though  they'd  break  their  necks. 

And  as  we  all  stood  starin'  out 

Into  the  night,  I  felt  the  brush 

Of  some  one's  hand,  and  turned  about, 

And  heerd  a  voice  that  whispered,  "Hush! — 

They're  ivaitin'  in  the  kitchen,  and 

You're  wanted.    Don't  you  understand?" 

Well,  ef  my  memory  serves  me  now, 

I  think  I  winked. — Well,  anyhow, 

I  left  the  crowd  a-gawkin'  there, 

And  jest  slipped  off  around  to  where 

The  back  door  opened,  and  went  in, 

And  turned  and  shet  the  door  ag'in, 

And  maybe  locked  it — couldn't  swear, — • 

A  woman's  arms  around  me  makes 

Me  liable  to  make  mistakes. — 

I  read  a  marriage  license  nex', 

But  as  I  didn't  have  my  specs 


SQUIRE   HAWKINS'S  STORY  105 

T  jest  inferred  it  was  all  right, 
And  tied  the  knot  so  mortal-tight 
That  Patience  and  my  old  friend  John 
Was  safe  enough  from  that  time  on! 

Well,  now,  I  might  go  on  and  tell 
How  all  the  joke  at  last  leaked  out, 
And  how  the  youngsters  raised  the  yell 
And  rode  the  happy  groom  about 
Upon  their  shoulders  ;  how  the  bride 
Was  kissed  a  hunderd  times  beside 
The  one  /  give  her, — tel  she  cried 
And  laughed  untel  she  like  to  died ! 
I  might  go  on  and  tell  you  all 
About  the  supper — and  the  ball. — 
You'd  ought  to  see  me  twist  my  heel 
Through  jest  one  old  Furginny  reel 
Afore  you  die!  er  tromp  the  strings 
Of  some  old  fiddle  tel  she  sings 
Some  old  cowtillion,  don't  you  know, 
That  putts  the  devil  in  yer  toe ! 

We  kep'  the  dancin'  up  tel  four 
O'clock,  I  reckon — maybe  more. — 
We  hardly  heerd  the  thunders  roar, 
Er  thought  about  the  storm  that  blowed— 
And  them  two  fellers  on  the  road! 
Tel  all  at  onc't  we  heerd  the  door 
Bu'st  open,  and  a  voice  that  swore, — 
And  old  Jeff  Thompson  tuck  the  floor. 
He  shuck  hisse'f  and  looked  around 


106  SQUIRE  HAWKINS'S  STORY 

Like  some  old  dog  about  half-drowned — 
His  hat,  I  reckon,  weighed  ten  pound 
To  say  the  least,  and  I'll  say,  shore, 
His  overcoat  weighed  fifty  more — 
The  ivettest  man  you  ever  saw, 
To  have  so  dry  a  son-in-law! 

He  sized  it  all ;  and  Patience  laid 

Her  hand  in  John's,  and  looked  afraid, 

And  waited.    And  a  stiller  set 

O'  folks,  I  know,  you  never  met 

In  any  court  room,  where  with  dread 

They  wait  to  hear  a  verdick  read. 

The  old  man  turned  his  eyes  on  me : 

"And  have  you  married  'em  ?"  says  he. 

I  nodded  "Yes."    "Well,  that'll  do," 

He  says,  "and  now  we're  th'ough  with  you, 

You  jest  clear  out,  and  I  decide 

And  promise  to  be  satisfied !" 

He  hadn't  nothin'  more  to  say. 

I  saw,  of  course,  how  matters  lay, 

And  left.    But  as  I  rode  away 

I  heerd  the  roosters  crow  fer  day. 


A  COUNTRY  PATHWAY 

I  COME  upon  it  suddenly,  alone — 
A  little  pathway  winding  in  the  weeds 
That  fringe  the  roadside;  and 'with  dreams  my  own, 
I  wander  as  it  leads. 

Full  wistfully  along  the  slender  way, 

Through  summer  tan  of  freckled  shade  and  shine, 
I  take  the  path  that  leads  me  as  it  may — 

Its  every  choice  is  mine. 

A  chipmunk,  or  a  sudden-whirring  quail, 

Is  startled  by  my  step  as  on  I  fare — 
A  garter-snake  across  the  dusty  trail 

Glances  and — is  not  there. 

Above  the  arching  jimson-weeds  flare  twos 
And  twos  of  sallow-yellow  butterflies, 

Like  blooms  of  lorn  primroses  blowing  loose 
When  autumn  winds  arise. 

The  trail  dips — dwindles — broadens  then,  and  lifts 

Itself  astride  a  cross-road  dubiously, 
And,  from  the  fennel  marge  beyond  it,  drifts 

Still  onward,  beckoning  me. 
107 


108  A   COUNTRY  PATHWAY 

And  though  it  needs  must  lure  me  mile  on  mile 
Out  of  the  public  highway,  still  I  go, 

My  thoughts,  far  in  advance  in  Indian  file, 
Allure  me  even  so. 


Why,  I  am  as  a  long-lost  boy  that  went 
At  dusk  to  bring  the  cattle  to  the  bars, 

And  was  not  found  again,  though  Heaven  lent 
His  mother  all  the  stars 

With  which  to  seek  him  through  that  awful  night 

0  years  of  nights  as  vain ! — Stars  never  rise 
But  well  might  miss  their  glitter  in  the  light 

Of  tears  in  mother-eyes ! 

So — on,  with  quickened  breaths,  I  follow  still — 

My  avant-courier  must  be  obeyed ! 
Thus  am  I  led,  and  thus  the  path,  at  will, 

Invites  me  to  invade 

A  meadow's  precincts,  where  my  daring  guide 
Clambers  the  steps  of  an  old-fashioned  stile, 

And  stumbles  down  again,  the  other  side, 
To  gambol  there  a  while. 

Tn  pranks  of  hide-and-seek,  as  on  ahead 

1  see  it  running,  while  the  clover-stalks 
Shake  rosy  fists  at  me,  as  though  they  said — 

"You  dog  our  country  walks 


A   COUNTRY  PATHWAY  109 

"And  mutilate  us  with  your  walking-stick! — 
We  will  not  suffer  tamely  what  you  do, 

And  warn  you  at  your  peril, — for  we'll  sick 
Our  bumblebees  on  you !" 

But  I  smile  back,  in  airy  nonchalance, — 

The  more  determined  on  my  wayward  quest, 

As  some  bright  memory  a  moment  dawns 
A  morning  in  my  breast — 

Sending  a  thrill  that  hurries  me  along 

In  faulty  similes  of  childish  skips, 
Enthused  with  lithe  contortions  of  a  song 

Performing  on  my  lips. 

In  wild  meanderings  o'er  pasture  wealth — 
Erratic  wanderings  through  dead'ning  lands, 

Where  sly  old  brambles,  plucking  me  by  stealth, 
Put  berries  in  my  hands : 

Or  the  path  climbs  a  boulder — wades  a  slough — 
Or,  rollicking  through  buttercups  and  flags, 

Goes  gaily  dancing  o'er  a  deep  bayou 
On  old  tree-trunks  and  snags : 

Or,  at  the  creek,  leads  o'er  a  limpid  pool 
Upon  a  bridge  the  stream  itself  has  made, 

With  some  Spring-freshet  for  the  mighty  tool 
That  its  foundation  laid. 

I.— 8 


110  A   COUNTRY  PATHWAY 

I  pause  a  moment  here  to  bend  and  muse, 
With  dreamy  eyes,  on  my  reflection,  where 

A  boat-backed  bug  drifts  on  a  helpless  cruise, 
Or  wildly  oars  the  air, 

As,  dimly  seen,  the  pirate  of  the  brook — 

The  pike,  whose  jaunty  hulk  denotes  his  speed—* 

Swings  pivoting  about,  with  wary  look 
Of  low  and  cunning  greed. 

Till,  filled  with  other  thought,  I  turn  again 
To  where  the  pathway  enters  in  a  realm 

Of  lordly  woodland,  under  sovereign  reign 
Of  towering  oak  and  elm. 

A  puritanic  quiet  here  reviles 

The  almost  whispered  warble  from  the  hedge, 
And  takes  a  locust's  rasping  voice  and  files 

The  silence  to  an  edge. 

In  such  a  solitude  my  somber  way 
Strays  like  a  misanthrope  within  a  gloom 

Of  his  own  shadows — till  the  perfect  day 
Bursts  into  sudden  bloom, 

And  crowns  a  long,  declining  stretch  of  space, 
Where  King  Corn's  armies  lie  with  flags  unfurled, 

And  where  the  valley's  dint  in  Nature's  face 
Dimples  a  smiling  world. 


A  COUNTRY  PATHWAY  111 

And  lo !  through  mists  that  may  not  be  dispelled, 
I  see  an  old  farm  homestead,  as  in  dreams, 

Where,  like  a  gem  in  costly  setting  held, 
The  old  log  cabin  gleams. 


O  darling  Pathway !  lead  me  bravely  on 
Adown  your  valley-way,  and  run  before 

Among  the  roses  crowding  up  the  lawn 
And  thronging  at  the  door, — 

And  carry  up  the  echo  there  that  shall 
Arouse  the  drowsy  dog,  that  he  may  bay 

The  household  out  to  greet  the  prodigal 
That  wanders  home  to-day. 


THE  OLD  GUITAR 

X TEGLECTED  now  is  the  old  guitar 
1   i  And  moldering  into  decay ; 
Fretted  with  many  a  rift  and  scar 

That  the  dull  dust  hides  away, 
While  the  spider  spins  a  silver  star 

In  its  silent  lips  to-day. 

The  keys  hold  only  nerveless  strings — 

The  sinews  of  brave  old  airs 
Are  pulseless  now ;  and  the  scarf  that  clings 

So  closely  here  declares 
A  sad  regret  in  its  ravelings 

And  the  faded  hue  it  wears. 

But  the  old  guitar,  with  a  lenient  grace, 

Has  cherished  a  smile  for  me ; 
And  its  features  hint  of  a  fairer  face 

That  comes  with  a  memory 
Of  a  flower-and-perfume-haunted  place 

And  a  moonlit  balcony.. 
112 


THE  OLD  GUITAR  113 

Music  sweeter  than  words  confess, 

Or  the  minstrel's  powers  invent, 
Thrilled  here  once  at  the  light  caress 

Of  the  fairy  hands  that  lent 
This  excuse  for  the  kiss  I  press 

On  the  dear  old  instrument. 

The  rose  of  pearl  with  the  jeweled  stem 

Still  blooms ;  and  the  tiny  sets 
In  the  circle  all  are  here ;  the  gem 

In  the  keys,  and  the  silver  frets ; 
But  the  dainty  fingers  that  danced  o'er  them — 

Alas  for  the  heart's  regrets ! — 

Alas  for  the  loosened  strings  to-day, 

And  the  wounds  of  rift  and  scar 
On  a  worn  old  heart,  with  its  roundelay 

Enthralled  with  a  stronger  bar 
That  Fate  weaves  on,  through  a  dull  decay 

Like  that  of  the  old  guitar ! 


"FRIDAY  AFTERNOON" 

TO  WILLIAM  MORRIS  PIERSON 
[1868-1870] 

OF  the  wealth  of  facts  and  fancies 
That  our  memories  may  recall, 
The  old  school-day  romances 

Are  the  dearest,  after  all ! — 
When  some  sweet  thought  revises 

The  half-forgotten  tune 
That  opened  "Exercises" 
On  "Friday  Afternoon." 

We  seem  to  hear  the  clicking 

Of  the  pencil  and  the  pen, 
And  the  solemn,  ceaseless  ticking 

Of  the  timepiece  ticking  then  ; 
And  we  note  the  watchful  master, 

As  he  waves  the  warning  rod, 
With  our  own  heart  beating  faster 

Than  the  boy's  who  threw  the  wad. 
114 


"FRIDAY  AFTERNOON"  115 

Some  little  hand  uplifted, 

And  the  creaking  of  a  shoe : — 
A  problem  left  unsifted 

For  the  teacher's  hand  to  do : 
The  murmured  hum  of  learning — 

And  the  flutter  of  a  book ; 
The  smell  of  something  burning, 

And  the  school's  inquiring  look. 

The  bashful  boy  in  blushes ; 

And  the  girl,  with  glancing  eyes, 
Who  hides  her  smiles,  and  hushes 

The  laugh  about  to  rise, — 
Then,  with  a  quick  invention, 

Assumes  a  serious  face, 
To  meet  the  words,  "Attention  ! 

Every  scholar  in  his  place !" 

The  opening  song,  page  20. — 

Ah!  dear  old  "Golden  Wreath," 
You  willed  your  sweets  in  plenty ; 

And  some  who  look  beneath 
The  leaves  of  Time  will  linger, 

And  loving  tears  will  start, 
As  Fancy  trails  her  finger 

O'er  the  index  of  the  heart. 

"Good  News  from  Home" — We  hear  it 

Welling  tremulous,  yet  clear 
And  holy  as  the  spirit 

Of  the  song  we  used  to  hear — 


116  "FRIDAY  AFTERNOON" 

"Good  news  for  me" — (A  throbbing 

And  an  aching  melody) — 
"Has  come  across  the" — (sobbing, 

Yea,  and  salty)  "dark  blue  sea!" 

Or  the  paean  "Scotland's  burning !" 

With  its  mighty  surge  and  swell 
Of  chorus,  still  returning 

To  its  universal  yell — 
Till  we're  almost  glad  to  drop  to 

Something  sad  and  full  of  pain — 
And  "Skip  verse  three,"  and  stop,  too, 

Ere  our  hearts  are  broke  again. 

Then  "the  big  girls' "  compositions, 
With  their  doubt,  and  hope,  and  glow 

Of  heart  and  face, — conditions 
Of  "the  big  boys" — even  so, — 

When  themes  of  "Spring,"  and  "Summer" 
And  of  "Fall,"  and  "Winter-time" 

Droop  our  heads  and  hold  us  dumber 

Than  the  sleigh-bell's  fancied  chime. 

Elocutionary  science — 

(Still  in  changeless  infancy!) — 
With  its  "Cataline's  Defiance," 

And  "The  Banner  of  the  Free": 
Or,  lured  from  Grandma's  attic, 

A  ramshackle  "rocker"  there, 
Adds  a  skreek  of  the  dramatic 

To  the  poet's  "Old  Arm-Chair." 


"FRIDAY  AFTERNOON"  117 

Or  the  "Speech  of  Logan"  shifts  us 

From  the  pathos,  to  the  fire ; 
And  Tell  (with  Gessler)  lifts  us 

Many  noble  notches  higher. — 
Till  a  youngster,  far  from  sunny, 

With  sad  eyes  of  watery  blue, 
Winds  up  with  something  "funny," 

Like  "Cock-a-doodle-do!" 

Then  a  dialogue — selected 

For  its  realistic  worth : — • 
The  Cruel  Boy  detected 

With  a  turtle  turned  to  earth 
Back  downward ;  and,  in  pleading, 

The  Good  Boy — strangely  gay 
At  such  a  sad  proceeding — 

Says,  "Turn  him  over,  pray !" 

So  the  exercises  taper 

Through  gradations  of  delight 
To  the  reading  of  "The  Paper," 

Which  is  entertaining — quite! 
For  it  goes  ahead  and  mentions 

"If  a  certain  Mr.  O. 
Has  serious  intentions 

That  he  ought  to  tell  her  so." 

It  also  "Asks  permission 

To  intimate  to  'John' 
The  dubious  condition 

Of  the  ground  he's  standing  on" ; 


118  "FRIDAY  AFTERNOON" 

And,  dropping  the  suggestion 
To  "mind  what  he's  about," 

It  stuns  him  with  the  question : 
"Does  his  mother  know  he's  out?" 

And  among  the  contributions 

To  this  "Academic  Press" 
Are  "Versified  Effusions" 

By— "Our  lady  editress"— 
Which  fact  is  proudly  stated 

By  the  Chief  of  the  concern, — 
"Though  the  verse  communicated 

Bears  the  pen-name  'Fanny  Fern.' 

When  all  has  been  recited, 

And  the  teacher's  bell  is  heard, 
And  visitors,  invited, 

Have  dropped  a  kindly  word, 
A  hush  of  holy  feeling 

Falls  down  upon  us  there, 
As  though  the  day  were  kneeling, 

With  the  twilight  for  the  prayer. 

Midst  the  wealth  of  facts  and  fancies 

That  our  memories  may  recall, 
Thus  the  old  school-day  romances 

Are  the  dearest,  after  all ! — 
When  some  sweet  thought  revises 

The  half-forgotten   tune 
That  opened  "Exercises," 

On  "Friday  Afternoon." 


"JOHNSON'S  BOY" 

THE  world  is  turned  ag'in'  me, 
And  people  says,  "They  guess 
That  nothin'  else  is  in  me 

But  pure  maliciousness !" 
I  git  the  blame  for  doin* 

What  other  chaps  destroy, 
And  I'm  a-goin'  to  ruin 

Because  I'm  "Jonnson's  boy." 

That  ain't  my  name — I'd  ruther 

They'd  call  me  Ike  or  Pat — 
But  they've  forgot  the  other — 

And  so  have  I,  for  that ! 
I  reckon  it's  as  handy, 

When  Nibsy  breaks  his  toy, 
Or  some  one  steals  his  candy, 

To  say  'twas  "Johnson's  boy!" 

You  can't  git  any  water 

At  the  pump,  and  find  the  spout 
So  durn  chuck-full  o'  mortar 

That  you  have  to  bore  it  out ; 
119 


120  "JOHNSON'S  BOY" 

You  tackle  any  scholar 
In  Wisdom's  wise  employ, 

And  I'll  bet  you  half  a  dollar 
He'll  say  it's  "Johnson's  boy !" 

Folks  don't  know  how  I  suffer 

In  my  uncomplainin'  way — 
They  think  I'm  gittin*  tougher 

And  tougher  every  day. 
Last  Sunday  night,  when  Flinder 

Was  a-shoutin'  out  for  joy, 
And  some  one  shook  the  winder, 

He  prayed  for  "Johnson's  boy." 

I'm  tired  of  bein'  follered 
By  farmers  every  day, 

And  then  o'  bein'  collared 
For  coaxin'  hounds  away ; 

Hounds  always  plays  me  double- 
It's  a  trick  they  all  enjoy — 

To  git  me  into  trouble, 

Because  I'm  "Johnson's  boy." 

But  if  I  git  to  Heaven, 

I  hope  the  Lord'll  see 
Some  boy  has  been  perfect, 

And  lay  it  on  to  me ; 
I'll  swell  the  song  sonorous, 

And  clap  my  wings  for  joy, 
And  sail  off  on  the  chorus — 

"Hurrah  for  'Johnson's  boy !'  * 


HER  BEAUTIFUL  HANDS 

OYOUR  hands — they  are  strangely  fair ! 
Fair — for  the  jewels  that  sparkle  there,— 
Fair — for  the  witchery  of  the  spell 
That  ivory  keys  alone  can  tell ; 
But  when  their  delicate  touches  rest 
Here  in  my  own  do  I  love  them  best, 
As  I  clasp  with  eager,  acquisitive  spans 
My  glorious  treasure  of  beautiful  hands! 

Marvelous — wonderful — beautiful  hands ! 
They  can  coax  roses  to  bloom  in  the  strands 
Of  your  brown  tresses ;  and  ribbons  will  twine, 
Under  mysterious  touches  of  thine, 
Into  such  knots  as  entangle  the  soul 
And  fetter  the  heart  under  such  a  control 
As  only  the  strength  of  my  love  understands — 
My  passionate  love  for  your  beautiful  hands. 

As  I  remember  the  first  fair  touch 
Of  those  beautiful  hands  that  I  love  so  much, 
I  seem  to  thrill  as  I  then  was  thrilled, 
Kissing  the  glove  that  I  found  unfilled — 
When  I  met  your  gaze,  and  the  queenly  bow, 
121 


122  HER   BEAUTIFUL   HANDS 

As  you  said  to  me,  laughingly,  "Keep  it 

now!"  .  .  . 

And  dazed  and  alone  in  a  dream  I  stand, 
Kissing  this  ghost  of  your  beautiful  hand. 

When  first  I  loved,  in  the  long  ago, 
And  held  your  hand  as  I  told  you  so — 
Pressed  and  caressed  it  and  gave  it  a  kiss 
And  said  "I  could  die  for  a  hand  like  this  1" 
Little  I  dreamed  love's  fullness  yet 
Had  to  ripen  when  eyes  were  wet 
And  prayers  were  vain  in  their  wild  demands 
For  one  warm  touch  of  your  beautiful  hands. 

Beautiful  Hands!— O  Beautiful  Hands! 

Could  you  reach  out  of  the  alien  lands 

Where  you  are  lingering,  and  give  me,  to-night, 

Only  a  touch — were  it  ever  so  light — 

My  heart  were  soothed,  and  my  weary  brain 

Would  lull  itself  into  rest  again ; 

For  there  is  no  solace  the  world  commands 

Like  the  caress  of  your  beautiful  hands. 


NATURAL  PERVERSITIES 

I  AM  not  prone  to  moralize 
In  scientific  doubt 
On  certain  facts  that  Nature  tries 

To  puzzle  us  about, — 
For  I  am  no  philosopher 

Of  wise  elucidation, 
But  speak  of  things  as  they  occur, 
From  simple  observation. 

I  notice  little  things — to  wit: — 

I  never  missed  a  train 
Because  I  didn't  run  for  it; 

I  never  knew  it  rain 
That  my  umbrella  wasn't  lent, — 

Or,  when  in  my  possession, 
The  sun  but  wore,  to  all  intent, 

A  jocular  expression. 

I  never  knew  a  creditor 

To  dun  me  for  a  debt 
But  I  was  "cramped"  or  "bu'sted" ;  or 

I  never  knew  one  yet, 


124  NATURAL  PERVERSITIES 

When  I  had  plenty  in  my  purse, 
To  make  the  least  invasion, — 

As  I,  accordingly  perverse, 
Have  courted  no  occasion. 

Nor  do  I  claim  to  comprehend 

What  Nature  has  in  view 
In  giving  us  the  very  friend 

To  trust  we  oughtn't  to. — 
But  so  it  is :  The  trusty  gun 

Disastrously  exploded 
Is  always  sure  to  be  the  one 

We  didn't  think  was  loaded. 

Our  moaning  is  another's  mirth, — 

And  what  is  worse  by  half, 
We  say  the  funniest  thing  on  earth 

And  never  raise  a  laugh : 
'Mid  friends  that  love  us  over  well, 

And  sparkling  jests  and  liquor, 
Our  hearts  somehow  are  liable 

To  melt  in  tears  the  quicker. 

We  reach  the  wrong  when  most  we  seek 

The  right;  in  like  effect, 
We  stay  the  strong  and  not  the  weak — 

Do  most  when  we  neglect. — 
Neglected  genius — truth  be  said — 

As  wild  and  quick  as  tinder, 
The  more  you  seek  to  help  ahead 

The  more  you  seem  to  hinder. 


NATURAL   PERVERSITIES  125 

I've  known  the  least  the  greatest,  too — 

And,  on  the  selfsame  plan, 
The  biggest  fool  I  ever  knew 

Was  quite  a  little  man: 
We  find  we  ought,  and  then  we  won't — 

We  prove  a  thing,  then  doubt  it, — 
Know  everything  but  when  we  don't 

Know  anything  about  it. 

I.— 9 


THE  SILENT  VICTORS 
MAY  30,  1878 

Dying  for  victory,  cheer  on  cheer 
Thundered  on  his  eager  ear. 

— CHARLES  L.  HOLSTEIN. 


DEEP,  tender,  firm  and  true,  the  Nation's  heart 
Throbs  for  her  gallant  heroes  passed  away, 
Who  in  grim  Battle's  drama  played  their  part, 
And  slumber  here  to-day. — 

Warm  hearts  that  beat  their  lives  out  at  the  shrine 
Of  Freedom,  while  our  country  held  its  breath 

As  brave  battalions  wheeled  themselves  in  line 
And  marched  upon  their  death : 

When   Freedom's   Flag,   its   natal   wounds   scarce 
healed, 

Was  torn  from  peaceful  winds  and  flung  again 
To  shudder  in  the  storm  of  battle-field — 

The  elements  of  men, — 

When  every  star  that  glittered  was  a  mark 
For  Treason's  ball,  and  every  rippling  bar 

Of  red  and  white  was  sullied  with  the  dark 
And  purple  stain  of  war: 
126 


THE   SILENT   VICTORS  127 

When  angry  guns,  like  famished  beasts  of  prey, 
Were  howling  o'er  their  gory  feast  of  lives, 

And  sending  dismal  echoes  far  away 
To  mothers,  maids,  and  wives : — 

The  mother,  kneeling  in  the  empty  night, 
With  pleading  hands  uplifted  for  the  son 

Who,  even  as  she  prayed,  had  fought  the  fight — 
The  victory  had  won : 

The  wife,  with  trembling  hand  that  wrote  to  say 
The  babe  was  waiting  for  the  sire's  caress — 

The  letter  meeting  that  upon  the  way, — 
The  babe  was  fatherless : 

The  maiden,  with  her  lips,  in  fancy,  pressed 
Against  the  brow  once  dewy  with  her  breath, 

Now  lying  numb,  unknown,  and  uncaressed 
Save  by  the  dews  of  death. 

ii 

What  meed  of  tribute  can  the  poet  pay 
The  Soldier,  but  to  trail  the  ivy-vine 

Of  idle  rhyme  above  his  grave  to-day 
In  epitaph  design? — 

Or  wreathe  with  laurel-words  the  icy  brows 
That  ache  no  longer  with  a  dream  of  fame, 

But,  pillowed  lowly  in  the  narrow  house, 
Renowned  beyond  the  name. 


128  THE  SILENT  VICTORS 

The  dewy  tear-drops  of  the  night  may  fall, 
And  tender  morning  with  her  shining  hand 

May  brush  them  from  the  grasses  green  and  tall 
That  undulate  the  land. — 

Yet  song  of  Peace  nor  din  of  toil  and  thrift, 
Nor  chanted  honors,  with  the  flowers  we  heap, 

Can  yield  us  hope  the  Hero's  head  to  lift 
Out  of  its  dreamless  sleep: 

The  dear  old  Flag,  whose  faintest  flutter  flies 
A  stirring  echo  through  each  patriot  breast, 

Can  never  coax  to  life  the  folded  eyes 
That  saw  its  wrongs  redressed — 

That  watched  it  waver  when  the  fight  was  hot, 
And  blazed  with  newer  courage  to  its  aid, 

Regardless  of  the  shower  of  shell  and  shot 
Through  which  the  charge  was  made; — 

And  when,  at  last,  they  saw  it  plume  its  wings, 
Like  some  proud  bird  in  stormy  element, 

And  soar  untrammeled  on  its  wanderings, 
They  closed  in  death,  content. 

in 

O  Mother,  you  who  miss  the  smiling  face 
Of  that  dear  boy  who  vanished  from  your  sight, 

And  left  you  weeping  o'er  the  vacant  place 
He  used  to  fill  at  night, — 


THE   SILENT   VICTORS  129 

Who  left  you  dazed,  bewildered,  on  a  day 
That  echoed  wild  huzzas,  and  roar  of  guns 

That  drowned  the  farewell  words  you  tried  to  say 
To  incoherent  ones; — 

Be  glad  and  proud  you  had  the  life  to  give — 
Be  comforted  through  all  the  years  to  come, — 

Your  country  has  a  longer  life  to  live, 
Your  son  a  better  home. 

0  Widow,  weeping  o'er  the  orphaned  child, 
Who  only  lifts  his  questioning  eyes  to  send 

A  keener  pang  to  grief  unreconciled, — 
Teach  him  to  comprehend 

He  had  a  father  brave  enough  to  stand 
Before  the  fire  of  Treason's  blazing  gun, 

That,  dying,  he  might  will  the  rich  old  land 
Of  Freedom  to  his  son. 

And,  Maiden,  living  on  through  lonely  years 

In  fealty  to  love's  enduring  ties, — 
With  strong  faith  gleaming  through  the  tender 
tears 

That  gather  in  your  eyes, 

Look  up!  and  own,  in  gratefulness  of  prayer, 
Submission  to  the  will  of  Heaven's  High  Host : — 

1  see  your  Angel-soldier  pacing  there, 
Expectant  at  his  post. — 


130  THE  SILENT   VICTORS 

I  see  the  rank  and  file  of  armies  vast, 
That  muster  under  one  supreme  control; 

I  hear  the  trumpet  sound  the  signal-blast — 
The  calling  of  the  roll — 

The  grand  divisions  falling  into  line 
And  forming,  under  voice  of  One  alone 

Who  gives  command,  and  joins  with  tongue  divine 
The  hymn  that  shakes  the  Throne. 

IV 

And  thus,  in  tribute  to  the  forms  that  rest 

In  their  last  camping-ground,  we  strew  the  bloom 

And  fragrance  of  the  flowers  they  loved  the  best, 
In  silence  o'er  the  tomb. 

With  reverent  hands  we  twine  the  Hero's  wreath 
And  clasp  it  tenderly  on  stake  or  stone 

That  stands  the  sentinel  for  each  beneath 
Whose  glory  is  our  own. 

While  in  the  violet  that  greets  the  sun, 
We  see  the  azure  eye  of  some  lost  boy; 

And  in  the  rose  the  ruddy  cheek  of  one 
We  kissed  in  childish  joy, — 

Recalling,  haply,  when  he  marched  away, 
He  laughed  his  loudest  though  his  eyes  were 
wet. — 

The  kiss  he  gave  his  mother's  brow  that  day 
Is  there  and  burning  yet : 


THE  SILENT  VICTORS  131 

And  through  the  storm  of  grief  around  her  tossed, 
One  ray  of  saddest  comfort  she  may  see, — 

Four  hundred  thousand  sons  like  hers  were  lost 
To  weeping  Liberty. 

•  ••••••• 

But  draw  aside  the  drapery  of  gloom, 
And  let  the  sunshine  chase  the  clouds  away 

And  gild  with  brighter  glory  every  tomb 
We  decorate  to-day : 

And  in  the  holy  silence  reigning  round, 

While  prayers  of  perfume  bless  the  atmosphere, 

Where  loyal  souls  of  love  and  faith  are  found, 
Thank  God  that  Peace  is  here ! 

And  let  each  angry  impulse  that  may  start, 
Be  smothered  out  of  every  loyal  breast ; 

And,  rocked  within  the  cradle  of  the  heart, 
Let  every  sorrow  rest. 


SCRAPS 

npHERE'S  a  habit  I  have  nurtured, 

X  From  the  sentimental  time 
When  my  life  was  like  a  story, 

And  my  heart  a  happy  rhyme, — 
Of  clipping  from  the  paper, 

Or  magazine,  perhaps, 
The  idle  songs  of  dreamers, 

Which  I  treasure  as  my  scraps. 

They  hide  among  my  letters, 

And  they  find  a  cozy  nest 
In  the  bosom  of  my  wrapper, 

And  the  pockets  of  my  vest; 
They  clamber  in  my  fingers 

Till  my  dreams  of  wealth  relapse 
In  fairer  dreams  than  Fortune's 

Though  I  find  them  only  scraps. 

Sometimes  I  find,  in  tatters 

Like  a  beggar,  form  as  fair 
As  ever  gave  to  Heaven 

The  treasure  of  a  prayer; 
And  words  all  dim  and  faded, 

And  obliterate  in  part, 
Grow  into  fadeless  meanings 

That  are  printed  on  the  heart. 
132 


SCRAPS  133 

Sometimes  a  childish  jingle 

Flings  an  echo,  sweet  and  clear, 
And  thrills  me  as  I  listen 

To  the  laughs  I  used  to  hear ; 
And  I  catch  the  gleam  of  faces, 

And  the  glimmer  of  glad  eyes 
That  peep  at  me  expectant 

O'er  the  walls  of  Paradise. 

O  syllables  of  measure! 

Though  you  wheel  yourselves  in  line,, 
And  await  the  further  order 

Of  this  eager  voice  of  mine ; 
You  are  powerless  to  follow 

O'er  the  field  my  fancy  maps, 
So  I  lead  you  back  to  silence 

Feeling  you  are  only  scraps. 


AUGUST 


A  DAY  of  torpor  in  the  sullen  heat 
Of  Summer's  passion :    In  the  sluggish 

stream 

The  panting  cattle  lave  their  lazy  feet, 
With  drowsy  eyes,  and  dream. 

Long  since  the  winds  have  died,  and  in  the  sky 
There  lives  no  cloud  to  hint  of  Nature's 
grief ; 

The  sun  glares  ever  like  an  evil  eye, 
And  withers  flower  and  leaf. 

Upon  the  gleaming  harvest-field  remote 
The  thresher  lies  deserted,  like  some  old 

Dismantled  galleon  that  hangs  afloat 
Upon  a  sea  of  gold. 

The  yearning  cry  of  some  bewildered  bird 
Above  an  empty  nest,  and  truant  boys 

Along  the  river's  shady  margin  heard — 
A  harmony  of  noise — 
134 


AUGUST  135 

A  melody  of  wrangling  voices  blent 

With  liquid  laughter,  and  with  rippling  calls 

Of  piping  lips  and  thrilling  echoes  sent 
To  mimic  waterfalls. 

And  through  the  hazy  veil  the  atmosphere 
Has  draped  about  the  gleaming  face  of  Day, 

The  sifted  glances  of  the  sun  appear 
In  splinterings  of  spray. 

The  dusty  highway,  like  a  cloud  of  dawn, 
Trails  o'er  the  hillside,  and  the  passer-by, 

A  tired  ghost  in  misty  shroud,  toils  on 
His  journey  to  the  sky. 

And  down  across  the  valley's  drooping  sweep, 
Withdrawn  to  farthest  limit  of  the  glade, 

The  forest  stands  in  silence,  drinking  deep 
Its  purple  wine  of  shade. 

The  gossamer  floats  up  on  phantom  wing; 

The  sailor-vision  voyages  the  skies 
And  carries  into  chaos  everything 

That  freights  the  weary  eyes : 

Till,  throbbing  on  and  on,  the  pulse  of  heat 
Increases — reaches — passes  fever's  height, 

And  Day  sinks  into  slumber,  cool  and  sweet, 
Within  the  arms  of  Night. 


DEAD  IN  SIGHT  OF  FAME 


DIED — Early  morning  of  September  5,  1876,  and. 
in  the  gleaming  dawn  of  "name  and  fame,"  Hamil 
ton  J.  D  unbar. 


DEAD !  Dead !  Dead ! 
We  thought  him  ours  alone ; 
And  were  so  proud  to  see  him  tread 
The  rounds  of  fame,  and  lift  his  head 

Where  sunlight  ever  shone; 
But  now  our  aching  eyes  are  dim, 
And  look  through  tears  in  vain  for  him. 

Name !    Name !    Name ! 

It  was  his  diadem ; 
Nor  ever  tarnish-taint  of  shame 
Could  dim  its  luster — like  a  flame 

Reflected  in  a  gem, 
He  wears  it  blazing  on  his  brow 
Within  the  courts  of  Heaven  now. 
136 


DEAD  IN  SIGHT  OF  FAME  137 

Tears !     Tears !    Tears ! 

Like  dews  upon  the  leaf 
That  bursts  at  last — from  out  the  years 
The  blossom  of  a  trust  appears 

That  blooms  above  the  grief ; 
And  mother,  brother,  wife  and  child 
Will  see  it  and  be  reconciled. 


IN  THE  DARK 

OIN  the  depths  of  midnight 
What  fancies  haunt  the  brain ! 
When  even  the  sigh  of  the  sleeper 
Sounds  like  a  sob  of  pain. 

A  sense  of  awe  and  of  wonder 

I  may  never  well  define, — 
For  the  thoughts  that  come  in  the  shadows 

Never  come  in  the  shine. 

The  old  clock  down  in  the  parlor 
Like  a  sleepless  mourner  grieves, 

And  the  seconds  drip  in  the  silence 
As  the  rain  drips  from  the  eaves. 

And  I  think  of  the  hands  that  signal 
The  hours  there  in  the  gloom, 

And  wonder  what  angel  watchers 

Wait  in  the  darkened  room, 

138 


IN  THE  DARK  139 

And  I  think  of  the  smiling  faces 

That  used  to  watch  and  wait, 
Till  the  click  of  the  clock  was  answered 

By  the  click  of  the  opening  gate. — 

They  are  not  there  now  in  the  evening — 

Morning  or  noon — not  there ; 
Yet  I  know  that  they  keep  their  vigil, 

And  wait  for  me  Somewhere. 


THE  IRON  HORSE 

NO  song  is  mine  of  Arab  steed — 
My  courser  is  of  nobler  blood, 
And  cleaner  limb  and  fleeter  speed, 

And  greater  strength  and  hardihood 
Than  ever  cantered  wild  and  free 
Across  the  plains  of  Araby. 

Go  search  the  level  desert  land 
From  Sana  on  to  Samarcand — 
Wherever  Persian  prince  has  been, 
Or  Dervish,  Sheik,  or  Bedouin, 
And  I  defy  you  there  to  point 

Me  out  a  steed  the  half  so  fine — 
From  tip  of  ear  to  pastern-joint — 

As  this  old  iron  horse  of  mine. 

You  do  not  know  what  beauty  is — 
You  do  not  know  what  gentleness 
His  answer  is  to  my  caress ! — 
Why,  look  upon  this  gait  of  his, — 
A  touch  upon  his  iron  rein — 
He  moves  with  such  a  stately  grace 
140 


I.— 10 


THE  IRON  HORSE  141 

The  sunlight  on  his  burnished  mane 

Is  barely  shaken  in  its  place ; 

And  at  a  touch  he  changes  pace, 
And,  gliding  backward,  stops  again. 

And  talk  of  mettle — Ah!  my  friend, 
Such  passion  smolders  in  his  breast 

That  when  awakened  it  will  send 
A  thrill  of  rapture  wilder  than 
E'er  palpitated  heart  of  man 
When  flaming  at  its  mightiest. 

And  there's  a  fierceness  in  his  ire — 
A  maddened  majesty  that  leaps 

Along  his  veins  in  blood  of  fire, 
Until  the  path  his  vision  sweeps 

Spins  out  behind  him  like  a  thread 
Unraveled  from  the  reel  of  time, 
As,  wheeling  on  his  course  sublime, 

The  earth  revolves  beneath  his  tread. 

Then  stretch  away,  my  gallant  steed ! 

Thy  mission  is  a  noble  one: 

Thou  bear's!  the  father  to  the  son, 
And  sweet  relief  to  bitter  need; 
Thou  bear'st  the  stranger  to  his  friends; 

Thou  bear'st  the  pilgrim  to  the  shrine, 
And  back  again  the  prayer  he  sends 

That  God  will  prosper  me  and  mine, — 
The  star  that  on  thy  forehead  gleams 
Has  blossomed  in  our  brightest  dreams. 


142  THE  IRON  HORSE 

Then  speed  thee  on  thy  glorious  race! 
The  mother  waits  thy  ringing  pace ; 
The  father  leans  an  anxious  ear 
The  thunder  of  thy  hooves  to  hear; 
The  lover  listens,  far  away, 
To  catch  thy  keen  exultant  neigh ; 
And,  where  thy  breathings  roll  and  rise, 
The  husband  strains  his  eager  eyes, 
And  laugh  of  wife  and  baby-glee 
Ring  out  to  greet  and  welcome  thee. 
Then  stretch  away !  and  when  at  last 

The  master's  hand  shall  gently  check 
Thy  mighty  speed,  and  hold  thee  fast, 

The  world  will  pat  thee  on  the  neck. 


DEAD  LEAVES 

DAWN 

AS  though  a  gipsy  maiden  with  dim  look, 
XA.     Sat  crooning  by  the  roadside  of  the  year, 

So,  Autumn,  in  thy  strangeness,  thou  art  here 
To  read  dark  fortunes  for  us  from  the  book 
Of  fate ;  thou  flingest  in  the  crinkled  brook 

The  trembling  maple's  gold,  and  frosty-clear 

Thy  mocking  laughter  thrills  the  atmosphere, 
And  drifting  on  its  current  calls  the  rook 
To  other  lands.    As  one  who  wades,  alone, 

Deep  in  the  dusk,  and  hears  the  minor  talk 
Of  distant  melody,  and  finds  the  tone, 

In  some  wierd  way  compelling  him  to  stalk 
The  paths  of  childhood  over, — so  I  moan, 

And  like  a  troubled  sleeper,  groping,  walk. 

DUSK 

THE  frightened  herds  of  clouds  across  the  sky 
Trample  the  sunshine  down,  and  chase  the 
day 

Into  the  dusky  forest-lands  of  gray 
And  somber  twilight.    Far,  and  faint,  and  high 
143 


144  DEAD  LEAVES 

The  wild  goose  trails  his  harrow,  with  a  cry 
Sad  as  the  wail  of  some  poor  castaway 
Who  sees  a  vessel  drifting  far  astray 

Of  his  last  hope,  and  lays  him  down  to  die. 

The  children,  riotous  from  school,  grow  bold 
And  quarrel  with  the  wind,  whose  angry  gust 

Plucks  off  the  summer  hat,  and  flaps  the  fold 
Of  many  a  crimson  cloak,  and  twirls  the  dust 

In  spiral  shapes  grotesque,  and  dims  the  gold 
Of  gleaming  tresses  with  the  blur  of  rust. 

NIGHT 

FUNEREAL  Darkness,  drear  and  desolate, 
Muffles  the  world.    The  moaning  of  the  wind 

Is  piteous  with  sobs  of  saddest  kind; 
And  laughter  is  a  phantom  at  the  gate 
Of  memory.    The  long-neglected  grate 

Within  sprouts  into  flame  and  lights  the  mind 

With  hopes  and  wishes  long  ago  refined 
To  ashes, — long  departed  friends  await 

Our  words  of  welcome:  and  our  lips  are  dumb 
And  powerless  to  greet  the  ones  that  press 

Old  kisses  there.    The  baby  beats  its  drum, 
And  fancy  marches  to  the  dear  caress 

Of  mother-arms,  and  all  the  gleeful  hum 
Of  home  intrudes  upon  our  loneliness. 


OVER  THE  EYES  OF  GLADNESS 


The  voice  of  One  hath  spoken, 
And  the  bended  reed  is  bruised — 

The  golden  bowl  is  broken, 
And  the  silver  cord  is  loosed. 


OVER  the  eyes  of  gladness 
The  lids  of  sorrow  fall, 
And  the  light  of  mirth  is  darkened 
Under  the  funeral  pall. 

The  hearts  that  throbbed  with  rapture 
In  dreams  of  the  future  years, 

Are  wakened  from  their  slumbers, 
And  their  visions  drowned  in  tears. 

»•••••• 

Two  buds  on  the  bough  in  the  morning- 
Twin  buds  in  the  smiling  sun, 

But  the  frost  of  death  has  fallen 
And  blighted  the  bloom  of  one. 
145 


146          OYER   THE  EYES  OF  GLADNESS 

One  leaf  of  life  still  folded 

Has  fallen  from  the  stem, 
Leaving  the  symbol  teaching 

There  still  are  two  of  them, — 

For  though — through  Time's  gradations, 
The  living  bud  may  burst, — 

The  withered  one  is  gathered, 
And  blooms  in  Heaven  first. 


ONLY  A  DREAM 

ONLY  a  dream! 
Her  head  is  bent 
Over  the  keys  of  the  instrument, 
While  her  trembling  fingers  go  astray 
In  the  foolish  tune  she  tries  to  play. 
He  smiles  in  his  heart,  though  his  deep,  sad 

eyes 

Never  change  to  a  glad  surprise 
As  he  finds  the  answer  he  seeks  confessed 
In  glowing  features,  and  heaving  breast. 

Only  a  dream ! 

Though  the  fete  is  grand, 
And  a  hundred  hearts  at  her  command, 
She  takes  no  part,  for  her  soul  is  sick 
Of  the  Coquette's  art  and  the  Serpent's 

trick, — 

She  someway  feels  she  would  like  to  fling 
Her  sins  away  as  a  robe,  and  spring 
Up  like  a  lily  pure  and  white, 
And  bloom  alone  for  him  to-night. 
147 


148  ONLY  A  DREAM 

Only  a  dream 

That  the  fancy  weaves. 
The  lids  unfold  like  the  rose's  leaves, 
And  the  upraised  eyes  are  moist  and  mild 
As  the  prayerful  eyes  of  a  drowsy  child. 
Does  she  remember  the  spell  they  once 
Wrought  in  the  past  a  few  short  months? 
Haply  not — yet  her  lover's  eyes 
Never  change  to  the  glad  surprise. 

Only  a  dream ! 

He  winds  her  form 
Close  in  the  coil  of  his  curving  arm, 
And  whirls  her  away  in  a  gust  of  sound 
As  wild  and  sweet  as  the  poets  found 
In  the  paradise  where  the  silken  tent 
Of  the  Persian  blooms  in  the  Orient, — 
While  ever  the  chords  of  the  music  seem 
Whispering  sadly, — "Only  a  dream  1" 


"  Only  a  dream  that  the  fancy  weaves ' 


OUR  LITTLE  GIRL 

HER  heart  knew  naught  of  sorrow, 
Nor  the  vaguest  taint  of  sin — 
'Twas  an  ever-blooming  blossom 

Of  the  purity  within : 
And  her  hands  knew  only  touches 

Of  the  mother's  gentle  care, 
And  the  kisses  and  caresses 

Through  the  interludes  of  praye*. 

Her  baby-feet  had  journeyed 

Such  a  little  distance  here, 
They  could  have  found  no  briers 

In  the  path  to  interfere ; 
The  little  cross  she  carried 

Could  not  weary  her,  we  know, 
For  it  lay  as  lightly  on  her 

As  a  shadow  on  the  snow. 

And  yet  the  way  before  us — 

O  how  empty  now  and  drear ! — 
How  ev'n  the  dews  of  roses 

Seem  as  dripping  tears  for  her! 
And  the  song-birds  all  seem  crying, 

As  the  winds  cry  and  the  rain, 
All  sobbingly, — "We  want — we  want 

Our  little  girl  again!" 
149 


THE  FUNNY  LITTLE  FELLOW 

TWAS  a  Funny  Little  Fellow 
Of  the  very  purest  type, 
For  he  had  a  heart  as  mellow 

As  an  apple  over  ripe; 
And  the  brightest  little  twinkle 

When  a  funny  thing  occurred, 
And  the  lightest  little  tinkle 
Of  a  laugh  you  ever  heard ! 

His  smile  was  like  the  glitter 

Of  the  sun  in  tropic  lands, 
And  his  talk  a  sweeter  twitter 

Than  the  swallow  understands ; 
Hear  him  sing — and  tell  a  story — 

Snap  a  joke — ignite  a  pun, — 
'Twas  a  capture — rapture — glory, 

An  explosion — all  in  one! 
150 


THE   FUNNY  LITTLE  FELLOW  151 

Though  he  hadn't  any  money — 

That  condiment  which  tends 
To  make  a  fellow  "honey" 

For  the  palate  of  his  friends ; — 
Sweet  simples  he  compounded — 

Sovereign  antidotes  for  sin 
Or  taint, — a  faith  unbounded 

That  his  friends  were  genuine. 

He  wasn't  honored,  maybe — 

For  his  songs  of  praise  were  slim, — 
Yet  I  never  knew  a  baby 

That  wouldn't  crow  for  him; 
I  never  knew  a  mother 

But  urged  a  kindly  claim 
Upon  him  as  a  brother, 

At  the  mention  of  his  name. 

The  sick  have  ceased  their  sighing, 

And  have  even  found  the  grace 
Of  a  smile  when  they  were  dying 

As  they  looked  upon  his  face ; 
And  I've  seen  his  eyes  of  laughter 

Melt  in  tears  that  only  ran 
As  though,  swift-dancing  after, 

Came  the  Funny  Little  Man. 

He  laughed  away  the  sorrow 

And  he  laughed  away  the  gloom 

We  are  all  so  prone  to  borrow 
From  the  darkness  of  the  tomb; 


152  THE  FUNNY  LITTLE  FELLOW 

And  he  laughed  across  the  ocean 
Of  a  happy  life,  and  passed, 

With  a  laugh  of  glad  emotion, 
Into  Paradise  at  last. 

And  I  think  the  Angels  knew  him, 

And  had  gathered  to  await 
His  coming,  and  run  to  him 

Through  the  widely  opened  Gate, 
With  their  faces  gleaming  sunny 

For  his  laughter-loving  sake, 
And  thinking,  "What  a  funny 

Little  Angel  he  will  make!" 


SONG  OF  THE  NEW  YEAR 

I  HEARD  the  bells  at  midnight 
Ring  in  the  dawning  year ; 
And  above  the  clanging  chorus 
Of  the  song,  I  seemed  to  hear 
A  choir  of  mystic  voices 

Flinging  echoes,  ringing  clear, 
From  a  band  of  angels  winging 
Through  the  haunted  atmosphere: 

"Ring  out  the  shame  and  sorrow, 

And  the  misery  and  sin, 
That  the  dawning  of  the  morrow 
May  in  peace  be  ushered  in." 

And  I  thought  of  all  the  trials 
The  departed  years  had  cost, 
And  the  blooming  hopes  and  pleasures 

That  are  withered  now  and  lost ; 
And  with  joy  I  drank  the  music 
Stealing  o'er  the  feeling  there 
As  the  spirit  song  came  pealing 
On  the  silence  everywhere : 

"Ring  out  the  shame  and  sorrow, 

And  the  misery  and  sin, 
That  the  dawning  of  the  morrow 
May  in  peace  be  ushered  in." 
153 


154  SONG  OF  THE  NEW   YEAR 

And  I  listened  as  a  lover 

To  an  utterance  that  flows 
In  syllables  like  dewdrops 

From  the  red  lips  of  a  rose, 
Till  the  anthem,  fainter  growing, 

Climbing  higher,  chiming  on 
Up  the  rounds  of  happy  rhyming, 
Slowly  vanished  in  the  dawn : 

"Ring  out  the  shame  and  sorrow, 

And  the  misery  and  sin, 
That  the  dawning  of  the  morrow 
May  in  peace  be  ushered  in." 

Then  I  raised  my  eyes  to  Heaven, 

And  with  trembling  lips  I  pled 
For  a  blessing  for  the  living 

And  a  pardon  for  the  dead ; 
And  like  a  ghost  of  music 

Slowly  whispered — lowly  sung — 
Came  the  echo  pure  and  holy 
In  the  happy  angel  tongue : 

"Ring  out  the  shame  and  sorrow, 

And  the  misery  and  sin, 
And  the  dawn  of  every  morrow 
Will  in  peace  be  ushered  in." 


A  LETTER  TO  A  FRIEND 

THE  past  is  like  a  story 
I  have  listened  to  in  dreams 
That  vanished  in  the  glory 

Of  the  Morning's  early  gleams ; 
And — at  my  shadow  glancing — 

I  feel  a  loss  of  strength, 
As  the  Day  of  Life  advancing 
Leaves  it  shorn  of  half  its  length. 

But  it's  all  in  vain  to  worry 

At  the  rapid  race  of  Time — 
And  he  flies  in  such  a  flurry 

When  I  trip  him  with  a  rhyme, 
I'll  bother  him  no  longer 

Than  to  thank  you  for  the  thought 
That  "my  fame  is  growing  stronger 

As  you  really  think  it  ought." 

And  though  I  fall  below  it, 

I  might  know  as  much  of  mirth 
To  live  and  die  a  poet 

Of  unacknowledged  worthy 
For  Fame  is  but  a  vagrant — 

Though  a  loyal  one  and  brave, 
And  his  laurels  ne'er  so  fragrant 

As  when  scattered  o'er  the  grave. 
155 


LINES  FOR  AN  ALBUM 

I  WOULD  not  trace  the  hackneyed  phrase 
Of  shallow  words  and  empty  praise, 
And  prate  of  "peace"  till  one  might  think 
My  foolish  pen  was  drunk  with  ink. 
Nor  will  I  here  the  wish  express 
Of  "lasting  love  and  happiness," 
And  "cloudless  skies" — for  after  all 
"Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall." 
— No.     Keep  the  empty  page  below, 
In  my  remembrance,  white  as  snow — 
Nor  sigh  to  know  the  secret  prayer 
My  spirit  hand  has  written  there. 


156 


TO  ANNIE 

WHEN  the  lids  of  dusk  are  falling 
O'er  the  dreamy  eyes  of  day, 
And  the  whippoorwills  are  calling, 

And  the  lesson  laid  away, — 
May  Mem'ry  soft  and  tender 

As  the  prelude  of  the  night, 
Bend  over  you  and  render 
As  tranquil  a  delight. 


i.-u  157 


FAME 


ONCE,  in  a  dream,  I  saw  a  man 
With  haggard  face  and  tangled  hair, 
And  eyes  that  nursed  as  wild  a  care 

As  gaunt  Starvation  ever  can; 

And  in  his  hand  he  held  a  wand 

Whose  magic  touch  gave  life  and  thought 
Unto  a  form  his  fancy  wrought 

And  robed  with  coloring  so  grand, 
It  seemed  the  reflex  of  some  child 
Of  Heaven,  fair  and  undefiled — 
A  face  of  purity  and  love — 
To  woo  him  into  worlds  above : 

And  as  I  gazed  with  dazzled  eyes, 
A  gleaming  smile  lit  up  his  lips 
As  his  bright  soul  from  its  eclipse 

Went  flashing  into  Paradise. 

Then  tardy  Fame  came  through  the  door 

And  found  a  picture — nothing  more. 


II 


And  once  I  saw  a  man,  alone, 
In  abject  poverty,  with  hand 

Uplifted  o'er  a  block  of  stone 

That  took  a  shape  at  his  command 

And  smiled  upon  him,  fair  and  good — 

A  perfect  work  of  womanhood, 
158 


FAME  159 

Save  that  the  eyes  might  never  weep, 
Nor  weary  hands  be  crossed  in  sleep, 
Nor  hair  that  fell  from  crown  to  wrist, 
Be  brushed  away,  caressed  and  kissed. 
And  as  in  awe  I  gazed  on  her, 
I  saw  the  sculptor's  chisel  fall — 
I  saw  him  sink,  without  a  moan, 
Sink  lifeless  at  the  feet  of  stone, 
And  lie  there  like  a  worshiper. 

Fame  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  hall, 
And  found  a  statue — that  was  all. 

Ill 

And  once  I  saw  a  man  who  drew 
A  gloom  about  him  like  a  cloak, 

And  wandered  aimlessly.     The  few 
Who  spoke  of  him  at  all,  but  spoke 

Disparagingly  of  a  mind 

The  Fates  had  faultily  designed: 

Too  indolent  for  modern  times — 
Too  fanciful,  and  full  of  whims — 

For,  talking  to  himself  in  rhymes, 
And  scrawling  never-heard-of  hymns, 

The  idle  life  to  which  he  clung 

Was  worthless  as  the  songs  he  sung ! 

I  saw  him,  in  my  vision,  filled 
With  rapture  o'er  a  spray  of  bloom 
The  wind  threw  in  his  lonely  room; 

And  of  the  sweet  perfume  it  spilled 

He  drank  to  drunkenness,  and  flung 


160  FAME 

His  long  hair  back,  and  laughed  and  sung 

And  clapped  his  hands  as  children  do 

At  fairy  tales  they  listen  to, 

While  from  his  flying  quill  there  dripped 

Such  music  on  his  manuscript 

That  he  who  listens  to  the  words 

May  close  his  eyes  and  dream  the  birds 

Are  twittering  on  every  hand 

A  language  he  can  understand. 

He  journeyed  on  through  life,  unknown, 

Without  one  friend  to  call  his  own; 

He  tired.    No  kindly  hand  to  press 

The  cooling  touch  of  tenderness 

Upon  his  burning  brow,  nor  lift 

To  his  parched  lips  God's  freest  gift — 

No  sympathetic  sob  or  sigh 

Of  trembling  lips — no  sorrowing  eye 

Looked  out  through  tears  to  see  him  die. 

And  Fame  her  greenest  laurels  brought 

To  crown  a  head  that  heeded  not. 

And  this  is  Fame !  A  thing,  indeed, 
That  only  comes  when  least  the  need : 
The  wisest  minds  of  every  age 
The  book  of  life  from  page  to  page 
Have  searched  in  vain ;  each  lesson  conned 
Will  promise  it  the  page  beyond — 
Until  the  last,  when  dusk  of  night 
Falls  over  it,  and  reason's  light 
Is  smothered  by  that  unknown   friend 
Who  signs  his  nom  de  plume,  The  End. 


AN  EMPTY  NEST 

I  FIND  an  old  deserted  nest, 
Half-hidden  in  the  underbrush: 
A  withered  leaf,  in  phantom  jest, 
Has  nestled  in  it  like  a  thrush 
With  weary,  palpitating  breast. 

I  muse  as  one  in  sad  surprise 

Who  seeks  his  childhood's  home  once  more, 
And  finds  it  in  a  strange  disguise 

Of  vacant  rooms  and  naked  floor, 
With  sudden  tear-drops  in  his  eyes. 

An  empty  nest !    It  used  to  bear 
A  happy  burden,  when  the  breeze 

Of  summer  rocked  it,  and  a  pair 
Of  merry  tattlers  told  the  trees 

What  treasures  they  had  hidden  there. 

But  Fancy,  flitting  through  the  gleams 
Of  youth's  sunshiny  atmosphere, 

Has  fallen  in  the  past,  and  seems, 
Like  this  poor  leaflet  nestled  here, — 

A  phantom  guest  of  empty  dreams. 
161 


MY  FATHER'S  HALLS 

MY  father's  halls,  so  rich  and  rare, 
Are  desolate  and  bleak  and  bare ; 
My  father's  heart  and  halls  are  one, 
Since  I,  their  life  and  light,  am  gone. 

O,  valiant  knight,  with  hand  of  steel 
And  heart  of  gold,  hear  my  appeal : 
Release  me  from  the  spoiler's  charms, 
And  bear  me  to  my  father's  arms. 


162 


THE  HARP  OF  THE  MINSTREL 

THE  harp  of  the  minstrel  has  never  a  tone 
As  sad  as  the  song  in  his  bosom  to-night, 
For  the  magical  touch  of  his  fingers  alone 

Can  not  waken  the  echoes  that  breathe  it  aright ; 
But  oh !  as -the  smile  of  the  moon  may  impart 

A  sorrow  to  one  in  an  alien  clime, 
Let  the  light  of  the  melody  fall  on  the  heart, 
And  cadence  his  grief  into  musical  rhyme. 

The  faces  have  faded,  the  eyes  have  grown  dim 

That  once  were  his  passionate  love  and  his  pride ; 
And  alas !  all  the  smiles  that  once  blossomed  for  him 

Have  fallen  away  as  the  flowers  have  died. 
The  hands  that  entwined  him  the  laureate's  wreath 

And  crowned  him  with  fame  in  the  long,  long  ago, 
Like  the  laurels  are  withered  and  folded  beneath 

The  grass  and  the  stubble — the  frost  and  the 
snow. 

Then  sigh,  if  thou  wilt,  as  the  whispering  strings 
Strive  ever  in  vain  for  the  utterance  clear, 

And  think  of  the  sorrowful  spirit  that  sings, 
And  jewel  the  song  with  the  gem  of  a  tear. 
163 


164  THE  HARP   OF   THE  MINSTREL 

For  the  harp  of  the  minstrel  has  never  a  tone 
As  sad  as  the  song  in  his  bosom  to-night, 

And  the  magical  touch  of  his  fingers  alone 

Can  not  waken  the  echoes  that  breathe  it  aright. 


HONEY  DRIPPING  FROM  THE  COMB 

HOW  slight  a  thing  may  set  one's  fancy 
drifting 

Upon  the  dead  sea  of  the  Past ! — A  view- 
Sometimes  an  odor — or  a  rooster  lifting 
A  far-off  "Ooh!  ooh-oohl" 

And  suddenly  we  find  ourselves  astray 

In  some  wood's-pasture  of  the  Long  Ago — 
Or  idly  dream  again  upon  a  day 
Of  rest  we  used  to  know. 

I  bit  an  apple  but  a  moment  since — 

A  wilted  apple  that  the  worm  had  spurned, — 
Yet  hidden  in  the  taste  were  happy  hints 
Of  good  old  days  returned. — 

And  so  my  heart,  like  some  enraptured  lute, 

Tinkles  a  tune  so  tender  and  complete, 
God's  blessing  must  be  resting  on  the  fruit — 
So  bitter,  yet  so  sweet! 
165 


JOHN  WALSH 

A  STRANGE  life— strangely  passed ! 
/JL    We  may  not  read  the  soul 
When  God  has  folded  up  the  scroll 

In  death  at  last. 

We  may  not — dare  not  say  of  one 
Whose  task  of  life  as  well  was  done 
As  he  could  do  it, — "This  is  lost, 
And  prayers  may  never  pay  the  cost." 

Who  listens  to  the  song 

That  sings  within  the  breast, 

Should    ever  hear  the  good  expressed 

Above  the  wrong. 
And  he  who  leans  an  eager  ear 
To  catch  the  discord,  he  will  hear 
The  echoes  of  his  own  weak  heart 
Beat  out  the  most  discordant  part. 

Whose  tender  heart  could  build 
Affection's  bower  above 
A  heart  where  baby  nests  of  love 
Were  ever  filled, — 
166 


JOHN  WALSH  l( 

With  upward  growth  may  reach  and  twine 
About  the  children,  grown  divine, 
That  once  were  his  a  time  so  brief 
His  very  joy  was  more  than  grief. 

O  Sorrow— "Peace,  be  still !" 

God  reads  the  riddle  right ; 

And  we  who  grope  in  constant  night 

But  serve  His  will ; 

And  when  sometime  the  doubt  is  gone, 
And  darkness  blossoms  into  dawn, — 
"God  keeps  the  good,"  we  then  will  say : 
"  Tis  but  the  dross  He  throws  away." 


ORLIE  WILDE 

A  GODDESS,  with  a  siren's  grace, — 
x~\     A  sun-haired  girl  on  a  craggy  place 
Above  a  bay  where  fish-boats  lay 
Drifting  about  like  birds  of  prey. 

Wrought  was  she  of  a  painter's  dream, — 

Wise  only  as  are  artists  wise, 

My  artist-friend,  Rolf  Herschkelhiem, 

With  deep  sad  eyes  of  oversize, 

And  face  of  melancholy  guise. 

I  pressed  him  that  he  tell  to  me 

This  masterpiece's  history. 

He  turned — returned — and  thus  beguiled 

Me  with  the  tale  of  Orlie  Wilde : — 

"We  artists  live  ideally : 
We  breed  our  firmest  facts  of  air; 
We  make  our  own  reality — 
We  dream  a  thing  and  it  is  so. 
The  fairest  scenes  we  ever  see 
Are  mirages  of  memory ; 
168 


ORL1E   WILDE 

The  sweetest  thoughts  we  ever  know 
We  plagiarize  from  Long  Ago : 
And  as  the  girl  on  canvas  there 
Is  marvelously  rare  and  fair, 
'Tis  only  inasmuch  as  she 
Is  dumb  and  may  not  speak  to  me !" 
He  tapped  me  with  his  mahlstick — then 
The  picture, — and  went  on  again : 

"Orlie  Wilde,  the  fisher's  child— 
I  see  her  yet,  as  fair  and  mild 
As  ever  nursling  summer  day 
Dreamed  on  the  bosom  of  the  bay : 
For  I  was  twenty  then,  and  went 
Alone  and  long-haired — all  content 
With  promises  of  sounding  name 
And  fantasies  of  future  fame, 
And  thoughts  that  now  my  mind  discards 
As  editor  a  fledgling  bard's. 

"At  evening  once  I  chanced  to  go, 
With  pencil  and  portfolio, 
Adown  the  street  of  silver  sand 
That  winds  beneath  this  craggy  land, 
To  make  a  sketch  of  some  old  scurf 
Of  driftage,  nosing  through  the  surf 
A  splintered  mast,  with  knarl  and  strand 
Of  rigging-rope  and  tattered  threads 
Of  flag  and  streamer  and  of  sail 
That  fluttered  idly  in  the  gale 


170  ORLIE   WILDE 

Or  whipped  themselves  to  sadder  shreds. 

The  while  I  wrought,  half  listlessly, 

On  my  dismantled  subject,  came 

A  sea-bird,  settling  on  the  same 

With  plaintive  moan,  as  though  that  he 

Had  lost  his  mate  upon  the  sea ; 

And — with  my  melancholy  trend — 

It  brought  dim  dreams  half  understood — 

It  wrought  upon  my  morbid  mood, — 

I  thought  of  my  own  voyagings 

That  had  no  end — that  have  no  end. — 

And,  like  the  sea-bird,  I  made  moan 

That  I  was  loveless  and  alone. 

And  when  at  last  with  weary  wings 

It  went  upon  its  wanderings, 

With  upturned  face  I  watched  its  flight 

Until  this  picture  met  my  sight: 

A  goddess,  with  a  siren's  grace, — 

A  sun-haired  girl  on  a  craggy  place 

Above  a  bay  where  fish-boats  lay 

Drifting  about  like  birds  of  prey. 

"In  airy  poise  she,  gazing,  stood 
A  matchless  form  of  womanhood, 
That  brought  a  thought  that  if  for  me 
Such  eyes  had  sought  across  the  sea, 
I  could  have  swum  the  widest  tide 
That  ever  mariner  defied, 
And,  at  the  shore,  could  on  have  gone 
To  that  high  crag  she  stood  upon, 


ORLIE   WILDE  171 

To  there  entreat  and  say,  'My  Sweet, 
Behold  thy  servant  at  thy  feet.' 
And  to  my  soul  I  said :  'Above, 
There  stands  the  idol  of  thy  love !' 

"In  this  rapt,  awed,  ecstatic  state 
I  gazed — till  lo!  I  was  aware 
A  fisherman  had  joined  her  there — 
A  weary  man,  with  halting  gait, 
Who  toiled  beneath  a  basket's  weight : 
Her  father,  as  I  guessed,  for  she 
Had  run  to  meet  him  gleefully 
And  ta'en  his  burden  to  herself, 
That  perched  upon  her  shoulder's  shelf 
So  lightly  that  she,  tripping,  neared 
A  jutting  crag  and  disappeared ; 
But  she  left  the  echo  of  a  song 
That  thrills  me  yet,  and  will  as  long 
As  I  have  being !  .  .  . 

.  .  .  "Evenings  came 

And  went, — but  each  the  same — the  same : 
She  watched  above,  and  even  so 
I  stood  there  watching  from  below ; 
Till,  grown  so  bold  at  last,  I  sung, — 
(What  matter  now  the  theme  thereof!) — 
It  brought  an  answer  from  her  tongue — 
Faint  as  the  murmur  of  a  dove, 
Yet  all  the  more  the  song  of  love.  .  .  . 


172  ORLIE   WILDE 

"I  turned  and  looked  upon  the  bay, 
With  palm  to  forehead — eyes  a-blur 
In  the  sea's  smile — meant  but  for  her ! — 
I  saw  the  fish-boats  far  away 
In  misty  distance,  lightly  drawn 
In  chalk-dots  on  the  horizon — 
Looked  back  at  her,  long,  wistfully, — 
And,  pushing  off  an  empty  skiff, 
I  beckoned  her  to  quit  the  cliff 
And  yield  me  her  rare  company 
Upon  a  little  pleasure-cruise. — 
She  stood,  as  loathful  to  refuse, 
To  muse  for  full  a  moment's  time, — 
Then  answered  back  in  pantomime 
'She  feared  some  danger  from  the  sea 
Were  she  discovered  thus  with  me.' 
I  motioned  then  to  ask  her  if 
I  might  not  join  her  on  the  cliff; 
And  back  again,  with  graceful  wave 
Of  lifted  arm,  she  anwer  gave 
'She  feared  some  danger  from  the  sea.' 

"Impatient,  piqued,  impetuous,  I 
Sprang  in  the  boat,  and  flung  'Good-by* 
From  pouted  mouth  with  angry  hand, 
And  madly  pulled  away  from  land 
With  lusty  stroke,  despite  that  she 
Held  out  her  hands  entreatingly : 
And  when  far  out,  with  covert  eye 


ORLIE   WILDE  173 

I  shoreward  glanced,  I  saw  her  fly 

In  reckless  haste  adown  the  crag, 

Her  hair  a-flutter  like  a  flag 

Of  gold  that  danced  across  the  strand 

In  little  mists  of  silver  sand. 

All  curious  I,  pausing,  tried 

To  fancy  what  it  all  implied, — 

When  suddenly  I  found  my  feet 

Were  wet ;  and,  underneath  the  seat 

On  which  I  sat,  I  heard  the  sound 

Of  gurgling  waters,  and  I  found 

The  boat  aleak  alarmingly.  .  .  . 

I  turned  and  looked  upon  the  sea, 

Whose  every  wave  seemed  mocking  me ; 

I  saw  the  fishers'  sails  once  more — 

In  dimmer  distance  than  before ; 

I  saw  the  sea-bird  wheeling  by, 

With  foolish  wish  that  7  could  fly : 

I  thought  of  firm  earth,  home  and  friends — 

I  thought  of  everything  that  tends 

To  drive  a  man  to  frenzy  and 

To  wholly  lose  his  own  command ; 

I  thought  of  all  my  waywardness — 

Thought  of  a  mother's  deep  distress ; 

Of  youthful  follies  yet  unpurged — 

Sins,  as  the  seas,  about  me  surged — 

Thought  of  the  printer's  ready  pen 

To-morrow  drowning  me  again ; — 

A  million  things  without  a  name — 

I  thought  of  everything  but — Fame.  .  .  . 

I.— 12 


174  ORL1E   WILDE 

"A  memory  yet  is  in  my  mind, 
So  keenly  clear  and  sharp-defined, 
I  picture  every  phase  and  line 
Of  life  and  death,  and  neither  mine, — 
While  some  fair  seraph,  golden-haired, 
Bends  over  me, — with  white  arms  bared, 
That  strongly  plait  themselves  about 
My  drowning  weight  and  lift  me  out — 
With  joy  too  great  for  words  to  state 
Or  tongue  to  dare  articulate ! 

"And  this  seraphic  ocean-child 
And  heroine  was  Orlie  Wilde: 
And  thus  it  was  I  came  to  hear 
Her  voice's  music  in  my  ear — 
Ay,  thus  it  was  Fate  paved  the  way 
That  I  walk  desolate  to-day !"  .  .  . 

The  artist  paused  and  bowed  his  face 

Within  his  palms  a  little  space, 

While  reverently  on  his  form 

I  bent  my  gaze  and  marked  a  storm 

That  shook  his  frame  as  wrathfully 

As  some  typhoon  of  agony, 

And  fraught  with  sobs — the  more  profound 

For  that  peculiar  laughing  sound 

We  hear  when  strong  men  weep.  ...  I  leant 

With  warmest  sympathy — I  bent 

To  stroke  with  soothing  hand  his  brow, 

He  murmuring — "  Tis  over  now !— 


ORLIE   WILDE  175 

* 

And  shall  I  tie  the  silken  thread 

Of  my  frail  romance?"    "Yes,"  I  said. — 

He  faintly  smiled ;  and  then,  with  brow 

In  kneading  palm,  as  one  in  dread — 

His  tasseled  cap  pushed  from  his  head; — 

"  'Her  voice's  music/  I  repeat," 

He  said, — "  'twas  sweet — O  passing  sweet ! — 

Though  she  herself,  in  uttering 

Its  melody,  proved  not  the  thing 

Of  loveliness  my  dreams  made  meet 

For  me — there,  yearning,  at  her  feet — 

Prone  at  her  feet — a  worshiper, — 

For  lo!  she  spake  a  tongue,"  moaned  he, 

"Unknown  to  me ; — unknown  to  me 

As  mine  to  her — as  mine  to  her." 


THAT  OTHER  MAUD  MULLER 


MAUD  MULLER  worked  at  making  hay, 
And  cleared  her  forty  cents  a  day. 

Her  clothes  were  coarse,  but  her  health  was  fine, 
And  so  she  worked  in  the  sweet  sunshine 

Singing-  as  glad  as  a  bird  in  May 
"Barbara  Allen"  the  livelong  day. 

She  often  glanced  at  the  far-off  town, 
And  wondered  if  eggs  were  up  or  down. 

And  the  sweet  song  died  of  a  strange  disease, 
Leaving  a  phantom  taste  of  cheese, 

And  an  appetite  and  a  nameless  ache 
For  soda-water  and  ginger  cake. 

The  Judge  rode  slowly  into  view — 
Stopped  his  horse  in  the  shade  and  threw 

176 


THAT  OTHER  MAUD  MULLER  177 

His  fine-cut  out,  while  the  blushing  Maud 
Marveled  much  at  the  kind  he  "chawed." 

"He  was  dry  as  a  fish,"  he  said  with  a  wink, 
"And  kind  o'  thought  that  a  good  square  drink 

Would  brace  him  up."    So  the  cup  was  filled 
With  the  crystal  wine  that  old  spring  spilled ; 

And  she  gave  it  him  with  a  sun-browned  Hand. 
"Thanks,"  said  the  Judge  in  accents  bland ; 

"A  thousand  thanks !  for  a  sweeter  draught, 
From  a  fairer  hand" — but  there  he  laughed. 

And  the  sweet  girl  stood  in  the  sun  that  day, 
And  raked  the  Judge  instead  of  the  hay. 


A  MAN  OF  MANY  PARTS 

IT  was  a  man  of  many  parts, 
Who  in  his  coffer  mind 
Had  stored  the  Classics  and  the  Arts 

And  Sciences  combined; 
The  purest  gems  of  poesy 

Came  flashing  from  his  pen — 
The  wholesome  truths  of  History 
He  gave  his  fellow  men. 

He  knew  the  stars  from  "Dog"  to  Mars; 

And  he  could  tell  you,  too, 
Their  distances — as  though  the  cars 

Had  often  checked  him  through — 
And  time  'twould  take  to  reach  the  sun, 

Or  by  the  "Milky  Way," 
Drop  in  upon  the  moon,  or  run 

The  homeward  trip,  or  stay. 
178 


A   MAN   OF  MANY  PARTS  179 

With  Logic  at  his  fingers'  ends, 

Theology  in  mind, 
He  often  entertained  his  friends 

Until  they  died  resigned ; 
And  with  inquiring  mind  intent 

Upon  Alchemic  arts 
A  dynamite  experiment — 
.......        t 

A  man  of  many  parts ! 


THE  FROG 

WHO  am  I  but  the  Frog— the  Frog ! 
My  realm  is  the  dark  bayou, 
And  my  throne  is  the  muddy  and  moss-grown  log 

That  the  poison-vine  clings  to — 
And  the  blacksnakes  slide  in  the  slimy  tide 
Where  the  ghost  of  the  moon  looks  blue. 

What  am  I  but  a  King — a  King! — 

For  the  royal  robes  I  wear — 
A  scepter,  too,  and  a  signet-ring, 

As  vassals  and  serfs  declare : 
And  a  voice,  god  wot,  that  is  equaled  not 

In  the  wide  world  anywhere ! 

I  can  talk  to  the  Night — the  Night ! — 

Under  her  big  black  wing 
She  tells  me  the  tale  of  the  world  outright, 

And  the  secret  of  everything ; 
For  she  knows  you  all,  from  the  time  you  crawl, 

To  the  doom  that  death  will  bring. 
180 


THE  FROG 


181 


The    Storm    swoops    down,    and    he    blows — and 
blows, — 

While  I  drum  on  his  swollen  cheek, 
And  croak  in  his  angered  eye  that  glows 

With  the  lurid  lightning's  streak; 
While  the  rushes  drown  in  the  watery  frown 

That  his  bursting  passions  leak. 

And  I  can  see  through  the  sky — the  sky — 

As  clear  as  a  piece  of  glass ; 
And  I  can  tell  you  the  how  and  why 

Of  the  things  that  come  to  pass — 
And  whether  the  dead  are  there  instead, 

Or  under  the  graveyard  grass. 

To  your  Sovereign  lord  all  hail — all  hail ! — 
To  your  Prince  on  his  throne  so  grim ! 

Let  the  moon  swing  low,  and  the  high  stars  trail 
Their  heads  in  the  dust  to  him ; 

And  the  wide  world  sing :  Long  live  the  King, 
And  grace  to  his  royal  whim ! 


DEAD  SELVES 

HOW  many  of  my  selves  are  dead ? 
The  ghosts  of  many  haunt  me :  Lo, 
The  baby  in  the  tiny  bed 
With  rockers  on,  is  blanketed 

And  sleeping  in  the  long  ago ; 
And  so  I  ask,  with  shaking  head, 
How  many  of  my  selves  are  dead? 

A  little  face  with  drowsy  eyes 

And  lisping  lips  comes  mistily 
From  out  the  faded  past,  and  tries 
The  prayers  a  mother  breathed  with  sighs 

Of  anxious  care  in  teaching  me ; 
But  face  and  form  and  prayers  have  fled — 
How  many  of  my  selves  are  dead? 

The  little  naked  feet  that  slipped 
In  truant  paths,  and  led  the  way 

Through  dead'ning  pasture-lands,  and  tripped 

O'er  tangled  poison-vines,  and  dipped 
In  streams  forbidden — where  are  they? 

In  vain  I  listen  for  their  tread — 

How  many  of  my  selves  are  dead  ? 
182 


DEAD  SELVES  183 

The  awkward  boy  the  teacher  caught 

Inditing  letters  filled  with  love, 
Who  was  compelled,  for  all  he  fought, 
To  read  aloud  each  tender  thought 

Of  "Sugar  Lump"  and  "Turtle  Dove." 
I  wonder  where  he  hides  his  head — 
How  many  of  my  selves  are  dead? 

The  earnest  features  of  a  youth 
With  manly  fringe  on  lip  and  chin, 

With  eager  tongue  to  tell  the  truth, 

To  offer  love  and  life,  forsooth, 
So  brave  was  he  to  woo  and  win ; 

A  prouder  man  was  never  wed — 

How  many  of  my  selves  are  dead  ? 

The  great,  strong  hands  so  all-inclined 
To  welcome  toil,  or  smooth  the  care 

From  mother-brows,  or  quick  to  find 

A  leisure-scrap  of  any  kind, 
To  toss  the  baby  in  the  air, 

Or  clap  at  babbling  things  it  said — 

How  many  of  my  selves  are  dead  ? 

The  pact  of  brawn  and  scheming  brain — 

Conspiring  in  the  plots  of  wealth, 
Still  delving,  till  the  lengthened  chain, 
Unwindlassed  in  the  mines  of  gain, 

Recoils  with  dregs  of  ruined  health 
And  pain  and  poverty  instead — 
How  many  of  my  selves  are  dead  ? 


184  DEAD  SELVES 

The  faltering  step,  the  faded  hair — 
Head,  heart  and  soul,  all  echoing 
With  maundering  fancies  that  declare 
That  life  and  love  were  never  there, 

Nor  ever  joy  in  anything, 
Nor  wounded  heart  that  ever  bled — 
How  many  of  my  selves  are  dead  ? 

So  many  of  my  selves  are  dead, 
That,  bending  here  above  the  brink 

Of  my  last  grave,  with  dizzy  head, 

I  find  my  spirit  comforted, 

For  all  the  idle  things  I  think: 

It  can  but  be  a  peaceful  bed, 

Since  all  my  other  selves  are  dead. 


A  DREAM  OF  LONG  AGO 

EING  listless  in  the  mosses 
Underneath  a  tree  that  tosses 
Flakes  of  sunshine,  and  embosses 

Its  green  shadow  with  the  snow — 
Drowsy-eyed,  I  sink  in  slumber 
Born  of  fancies  without  number — 
Tangled  fancies  that  encumber 
Me  with  dreams  of  long  ago. 

Ripples  of  the  river  singing; 
And  the  water-lilies  swinging 
Bells  of  Parian,  and  ringing 

Peals  of  perfume  faint  and  fine, 
While  old  forms  and  fairy  faces 
Leap  from  out  their  hiding-places 
In  the  past,  with  glad  embraces 

Fraught  with  kisses  sweet  as  wine. 

Willows  dip  their  slender  fingers 
O'er  the  little  fisher's  stringers, 
While  he  baits  his  hook  and  lingers 

Till  the  shadows  gather  dim ; 
And  afar  off  comes  a  calling 
185 


186  A   DREAM   OF  LONG  AGO 

Like  the  sounds  of  water  falling, 
With  the  lazy  echoes  drawling 
Messages  of  haste  to  him. 

Little  naked  feet  that  tinkle 

Through  the  stubble-fields,  and  twinkle 

Down  the  winding  road,  and  sprinkle 

Little  mists  of  dusty  rain, 
While  in  pasture-lands  the  cattle 
Cease  their  grazing  with  a  rattle 
Of  the  bells  whose  clappers  tattle 

To  their  masters  down  the  lane. 

Trees  that  hold  their  tempting  treasures 
O'er  the  orchard's  hedge  embrasures, 
Furnish  their  forbidden  pleasures 

As  in  Eden  lands  of  old ; 
And  the  coming  of  the  master 
Indicates  a  like  disaster 
To  the  frightened  heart  that  faster 

Beats  pulsations  manifold. 

Puckered  lips  whose  pipings  tingle 
In  staccato  notes  that  mingle 
Musically  with  the  jingle- 
Haunted  winds  that  lightly  fan 
Mellow  twilights,  crimson-tinted 
By  the  sun,  and  picture-printed 
Like  a  book  that  sweetly  hinted 
Of  the  Nights  Arabian, 


A  DREAM  OF  LONG  AGO  187 

Porticoes  with  columns  plaited 

And  entwined  with  vines  and  freighted 

With  a  bloom  all  radiated 

With  the  light  of  moon  and  star ; 
Where  some  tender  voice  is  winging 
In  sad  flights  of  song,  and  singing 
To  the  dancing  fingers  flinging 

Dripping  from  the  sweet  guitar. 

Would  my  dreams  were  never  taken 
From  me :  that  with  faith  unshaken 
I  might  sleep  and  never  waken 

On  a  weary  world  of  woe ! 
Links  of  love  would  never  sever 
As  I  dreamed  them,  never,  never ! 
I  would  glide  along  forever 

Through  the  dreams  of  long  ago. 


CRAQUEODOOM 

THE  Crankadox  leaned  o'er  the  edge  of  the 
moon 

And  wistfully  gazed  on  the  sea 
Where  the  Gryxabodill  madly  whistled  a  tune 

To  the  air  of  "Ti-fol-de-ding-dee." 
The  quavering  shriek  of  the  Fly-up-the-creek 

Was  fitfully  wafted  afar 
To  the  Queen  of  the  Wunks  as  she  powdered  her 

cheek 
With  the  pulverized  rays  of  a  star. 

The  Gool  closed  his  ear  on  the  voice  of  the  Grig, 

And  his  heart  it  grew  heavy  as  lead 
As  he  marked  the  Baldekin  adjusting  his  wing 

On  the  opposite  side  of  his  head, 
And  the  air  it  grew  chill  as  the  Gryxabodill 

Raised  his  dank,  dripping  fins  to  the  skies, 
And  plead  with  the  Plunk  for  the  use  of  her  bill 

To  pick  the  tears  out  of  his  eyes. 

The  ghost  of  the  Zhack  flitted  by  in  a  trance, 
And  the  Squidjum  hid  under  a  tub 
188 


CRAQUEODOOM  189 

As  he  heard  the  loud  hooves  of  the  Hooken  ad 
vance 

With  a  rub-a-dub — dub-a-dub — dub ! 
And  the  Crankadox  cried,  as  he  lay  down  and  died, 

"My  fate  there  is  none  to  bewail," 
While  the  Queen  of  the  Wunks  drifted  over  the 

tide 
With  a  long  piece  of  crape  to  her  tail. 

I.— 13 


JUNE 

O  QUEENLY  month  of  indolent  repose ! 
I  drink  thy  breath  in  sips  of  rare  perfume, 

As  in  thy  downy  lap  of  clover-bloom 
I  nestle  like  a  drowsy  child  and  doze 
The  lazy  hours  away.    The  zephyr  throws 

The  shifting  shuttle  of  the  Summer's  loom 

And  weaves  a  damask-work  of  gleam  and  gloom 
Before  thy  listless  feet.    The  lily  blows 
A  bugle-call  of  fragrance  o'er  the  glade ; 

And,  wheeling  into  ranks,  with  plume  and  spear, 
Thy  harvest-armies  gather  on  parade ; 

While,  faint  and  far  away,  yet  pure  and  clear, 
A  voice  calls  out  of  alien  lands  of  shade : — 

All  hail  the  Peerless  Goddess  of  the  Year ! 


190 


WASH  LOWRY'S  REMINISCENCE 

A  3D  you're  the  poet  of  this  concern  ? 
I've  seed  your  name  in  print 
A  dozen  times,  but  I'll  be  dern 
I'd  V  never  'a'  took  the  hint 
O'  the  size  you  are — fer  I'd  pictured  you 

A  kind  of  a  tallish  man — 
Dark-complected  and  sailor  too, 
And  on  the  consumpted  plan. 

'Stid  o'  that  you're  little  and  small, 

With  a  milk-and-water  face — 
'Thout  no  snap  in  your  eyes  at  all, 

Er  nothin'  to  suit  the  case ! 
Kind  o'  look  like  a — I  don't  know — 

One  o'  these  fair-ground  chaps 
That  runs  a  thingamajig  to  blow, 

Er  a  candy-stand  perhaps. 
191 


192  WASH  LOWRY'S  REMINISCENCE 

'LI  I've  allus  thought  that  poetry 

Was  a  sort  of  a — some  disease — 
Fer  I  knowed  a  poet  once,  and  he 

Was  techy  and  hard  to  please, 
And  moody-like,  and  kindo'  sad 

And  didn't  seem  to  mix 
With  other  folks — like  his  health  was  bad, 

Er  his  liver  out  o'  fix. 

Used  to  teach  fer  a  livelihood — 

There's  folks  in  Pipe  Crick  yit 
Remembers  him — and  he  was  good 

At  cipherin'  I'll  admit — 
And  posted  up  in  G'ography 

But  when  it  comes  to  tact, 
And  gittin'  along  with  the  school,  you  see, 

He  fizzled,  and  that's  a  fact ! 

Boarded  with  us  fer  fourteen  months 

And  in  all  that  time  I'll  say 
We  never  catched  him  a-sleepin'  once 

Er  idle  a  single  day. 
But  shucks !  It  made  him  worse  and  worse 

A-writin'  rhymes  and  stuff, 
And  the  school  committee  used  to  furse 

'At  the  school  warn't  good  enough. 

He  warn't  as  strict  as  he  ought  to  been, 
And  never  was  known  to  whip, 

Or  even  to  keep  a  scholard  in 
At  work  at  his  penmanship ; 


WASH  LOWRY'S  REMINISCENCE  193 

'Stid  o'  that  he'd  learn  'em  notes, 

And  have  'em  every  day, 
Spilin'  hymns  and  a-splittin'  th'oats 

With  his  "Do-sol-fa-me-ra  1" 

Tel  finally  it  was  jest  agreed 

We'd  have  to  let  him  go, 
And  we  all  felt  bad — we  did  indeed, 

When  we  come  to  tell  him  so ; 
Fer  I  remember,  he  turned  so  white, 

And  smiled  so  sad,  somehow, 
I  someway  felt  it  wasn't  right, 

And  I'm  shore  it  wasn't  now ! 

He  hadn't  no  complaints  at  all — 

He  bid  the  school  adieu, 
And  all  o'  the  scholards  great  and  small 

Was  mighty  sorry  too ! 
And  when  he  closed  that  afternoon 

They  sung  some  lines  that  he 
Had  writ  a  purpose,  to  some  old  tune 

That  suited  the  case,  you  see. 

And  then  he  lingered  and  delayed 

And  wouldn't  go  away — 
And  shet  himself  in  his  room  and  stayed 

A-writin'  from  day  to  day ; 
And  kep'  a-gittin'  stranger  still, 

And  thinner  all  the  time, 
You  know,  as  any  feller  will 

On  nothin'  else  but  rhyme. 


194  WASH  LOWRY'S  REMINISCENCE 

He  didn't  seem  adzactly  right, 

Er  like  he  was  crossed  in  love, 
He'd  work  away  night  after  night, 

And  walk  the  floor  above ; 
We'd  hear  him  read  and  talk,  and  sing 

So  lonesome-like  and  low, 
My  woman's  cried  like  ever'thing — 

'Way  in  the  night,  you  know. 

And  when  at  last  he  tuck  to  bed 

He'd  have  his  ink  and  pen ; 
"So's  he  could  coat  the  muse"  he  said, 

"He'd  die  contented  then"; 
And  jest  before  he  past  away 

He  read  with  dyin'  gaze 
The  epitaph  that  stands  to-day 

To  show  you  where  he  lays. 

And  ever  sence  then  I've  allus  thought 

That  poetry's  some  disease, 
And  them  like  you  that's  got  it  ought 

To  watch  their  q's  and  p's ; 
And  leave  the  sweets  of  rhyme,  to  sup 

On  the  wholesome  draughts  of  toil, 
And  git  your  health  recruited  up 

By  plowin'  in  rougher  soil. 


THE  ANCIENT  PRINTERMAN 

PRINTERMAN  of  sallow  face, 
And  look  of  absent  guile, 
Is  it  the  'copy'  on  your  'case' 

That  causes  you  to  smile  ? 
Or  is  it  some  old  treasure  scrap 
You  cull  from  Memory's  file? 

"I  fain  would  guess  its  mystery — 

For  often  I  can  trace 
A  fellow  dreamer's  history 

Whene'er  it  haunts  the  face; 
Your  fancy's  running  riot 

In  a  retrospective  race ! 

"Ah,  Printerman,  you're  straying 
Afar  from  'stick'  and  type — 

Your  heart  has  'gone  a-maying,' 
And  you  taste  old  kisses,  ripe 

Again  on  lips  that  pucker 
At  your  old  asthmatic  pipe! 
195 


196 


"You  are  dreaming  of  old  pleasures 
That  have  faded  from  your  view ; 
And  the  music-burdened  measures 
.    Of  the  laughs  you  listen  to 
Are  now  but  angel-echoes — 
O,  have  I  spoken  true?" 

The  ancient  Printer  hinted 
With  a  motion  full  of  grace 

To  where  the  words  were  printed 
On  a  card  above  his  "case," — 

"I  am  deaf  and  dumb!"    I  left  him 
With  a  smile  upon  his  face. 


PRIOR  TO  MISS  BELLE'S  APPEARANCE 

WHAT  makes  you  come  here  fer,  Mister, 
So  much  to  our  house? — Say? 
Come  to  see  our  big  sister ! — 
An'  Charley  he  says  'at  you  kissed  her 
An'  he  ketched  you,  th'uther  day ! — 
Didn'  you,  Charley? — But  we  p'omised  Belle 
An'  crossed  our  heart  to  never  to  tell — 
'Cause  she  gived  us  some  o'  them-er 
Chawk'lut-drops  'at  you  bringed  to  her! 

Charley  he's  my  little  b'uther — 

An'  we  has  a-mostest  fun, 
Don't  we,  Charley? — Our  Muther, 
Whenever  we  whips  one  anuther, 

Tries  to  whip  us — an'  we  run — 
Don't  we,  Charley  ? — An'  nen,  bime-by, 
Nen  she  gives  us  cake — an'  pie — 
Don't  she,  Charley? — when  we  come  in 
An'  p'omise  never  to  do  it  ag'in ! 


197 


198  PRIOR    TO   MISS  BELLE'S  APPEARANCE 

He's  named  Charley. — I'm  Willie — 
An'  I'm  got  the  purtiest  name! 

But  Uncle  Bob  he  calls  me  "Billy"— 

Don't  he,  Charley?— 'N'  our  filly 
We  named  "  Billy,"  the  same 

1st  like  me !    An'  our  Ma  said 

'At  "Bob  puts  foolishnuss  into  our  head !" — 

Didn'  she,  Charley? — An'  she  don't  know 

Much  about  boys! — 'Cause  Bob  said  so! 

Baby's  a  funniest  feller ! 

Nain't  no  hair  on  his  head — 
Is  they,  Charley? — It's  meller 
Wite  up  there !  An'  ef  Belle  er 

Us  ask  wuz  we  that  way,  Ma  said, — 
"Yes ;  an'  yer  Pa's  head  wuz  soft  as  that, 
An'  it's  that  way  yet!" — An'  Pa  grabs  his  hat 
An'  says,  "Yes,  childern,  she's  right  about  Pa — 
'Cause  that's  the  reason  he  married  yer  Ma !" 

An'  our  Ma  says  'at  "Belle  couldn' 

Ketch  nothin'  at  all  but  ist  'bows'!" — 
An'  Pa  says  'at  "you're  soft  as  puddun !" — 
An'  Uncle  Bob  says  "you're  a  good-un — 

'Cause  he  can  tell  by  yer  nose !" — 
Didn'  he,  Charley? — An'  when  Belle'll  play 
In  the  poller  on  th'  pianer,  some  day, 
Bob  makes  up  funny  songs  about  you, 
Till  she  gits  mad — like  he  wants  her  to ! 


PRIOR    TO   MISS   BELLE'S  APPEARANCE  199 

Our  sister  Fanny  she's  'leven 

Years  old!    'At's  mucher  'an  7 — 
Ain't  it,  Charley?    .     .     .     I'm  seven! — 
But  our  sister  Fanny's  in  Heaven! 

Nere's  where  you  go  ef  you  die ! — 
Don't  ^ou.  Charley? — Nen  you  has  wings — 
1st  like  fanny! — an'  pur  tie  st  things! — 
Don't  you,  Charley? — An'  nen  you  can  fly — 
1st  fly— an'  ever'thingl   .   .   .   Wisht/'ddie! 


WHEN  MOTHER  COMBED  MY  HAIR 

WHEN  Memory,  with  gentle  hand, 
Has  led  me  to  that  foreign  land 
Of  childhood  days,  I  long  to  be 
Again  the  boy  on  bended  knee, 
With  head  a-bow,  and  drowsy  smile 
Hid  in  a  mother's  lap  the  while, 
With  tender  touch  and  kindly  care, 
She  bends  above  and  combs  my  hair. 

Ere  threats  of  Time,  or  ghosts  of  cares 

Had  paled  it  to  the  hue  it  wears, 

Its  tangled  threads  of  amber  light 

Fell  o'er  a  forehead,  fair  and  white, 

That  only  knew  the  light  caress 

Of  loving  hands,  or  sudden  press 

Of  kisses  that  were  sifted  there 

The  times  when  mother  combed  my  hair. 

But  its  last  gleams  of  gold  have  slipped 
Away ;  and  Sorrow's  manuscript 
Is  fashioned  of  the  snowy  brow — 
So  lined  and  underscored  now 
200 


WHEN  MOTHER   COMBED  MY  HAIR       201 

That  you,  to  see  it,  scarce  would  guess 

It  e'er  had  felt  the  fond  caress 

Of  loving  lips,  or  known  the  care 

Of  those  dear  hands  that  combed  my  hair. 

•  ••••••• 

I  am  so  tired!    Let  me  be 
A  moment  at  my  mother's  knee; 
One  moment — that  I  may  forget 
The  trials  waiting  for  me  yet : 
One  moment  free  from  every  pain — 
O!  Mother!     Comb  my  hair  again! 
And  I  will,  oh,  so  humbly  bow, 
For  I've  a  wife  that  combs  it  now. 


A  WRANGDILLION 

T^EXERY-TETHERY!  down  in  the  dike, 
-L'  Under  the  ooze  and  the  slime, 
Nestles  the  wraith  of  a  reticent  Gryke, 

Blubbering  bubbles  of  rhyme : 
Though  the  reeds  touch  him  and  tickle  his  teeth- 

Though  the  Graigroll  and  the  Cheest 
Pluck  at  the  leaves  of  his  laureate-wreath, 

Nothing  affects  him  the  least. 

He  sinks  to  the  dregs  in  the  dead  o'  the  night, 

And  he  shuffles  the  shadows  about 
As  he  gathers  the  stars  in  a  nest  of  delight 

And  sets  there  and  hatches  them  out : 
The  Zhederrill  peers  from  his  watery  mine 

In  scorn  with  the  Will-o'-the-wisp, 
As  he  twinkles  his  eyes  in  a  whisper  of  shine 

That  ends  in  a  luminous  lisp. 
202 


A   WRANGDILLION  203 

The  Morning  is  born  like  a  baby  of  gold, 

And  it  lies  in  a  spasm  of  pink, 
And  rallies  the  Cheest  for  the  horrible  cold 

He  has  dragged  to  the  willowy  brink, 
The  Gryke  blots  his  tears  with  a  scrap  of  his 
grief, 

And  growls  at  the  wary  Graigroll 
As  he  twunkers  a  tune  on  a  Tiljicum  leaf 

And  hums  like  a  telegraph  pole. 


GEORGE  MULLEN'S  CONFESSION 

FOR  the  sake  of  guilty  conscience,  and  the  heart 
that  ticks  the  time 
Of  the  clockworks  of  my  nature,  I  desire  to  say 

that  I'm 
A  weak  and  sinful  creature,  as  regards  my  daily 

walk 

The  last  five  years  and  better.    It  ain't  worth  while 
to  talk— 

I've  been  too  mean  to  tell  it!    I've  been  so  hard, 

you  see, 
And  full  of  pride,  and — onry — now  there's  the  word 

for  me — 

Just  onry — and  to  show  you,  I'll  give  my  history 
With  vital  points  in  question,  and  I  think  you'll  all 

agree. 

I  was  always  stiff  and  stubborn  since  I  could  recol 
lect, 

And  had  an  awful  temper,  and  never  would  reflect ; 

And  always  into  trouble — I  remember  once  at 
school 

The  teacher  tried  to  flog  me,  and  I  reversed  that 
rule. 

204 


GEORGE  MULLEN'S  CONFESSION         205 

0  I  was  bad  I  tell  you !    And  it's  a  funny  move 
That  a  fellow  wild  as  I  was  could  ever  fall  in  love ; 
And  it's  a  funny  notion  that  an  animal  like  me, 
Under  a  girl's  weak  fingers  was  as  tame  as  tame 

could  be! 

But  it's  so,  and  sets  me  thinking  of  the  easy  way 
she  had 

Of  cooling  down  my  temper — though  I'd  be  fight 
ing  mad. 

"My  Lion  Queen"  I  called  her — when  a  spell  of 
mine  occurred 

She'd  come  in  a  den  of  feelings  and  quell  them 
with  a  word. 

I'll  tell  you  how  she  loved  me — and  what  her  peo 
ple  thought: 

When  I  asked  to  marry  Annie  they  said  "they  reck 
oned  not — 

That  I  cut  too  many  didoes  and  monkey-shines  to 
suit 

Their  idea  of  a  son-in-law,  and  I  could  go,  to  boot !" 

1  tell  you  that  thing  riled  me !    Why,  I  felt  my  face 

turn  white, 
And  my  teeth  shut  like  a  steel  trap,  and  the  fingers 

of  my  right 
Hand  pained  me  with  their  pressure — all  the  rest's 

a  mystery 
Till  I  heard  my  Annie  saying — "I'm  going,  too,  you 

see." 

I— 14 


206          GEORGE  MULLEN'S  CONFESSION 

We  were  coming  through  the  gateway,  and  she 

wavered  for  a  spell 
When  she  heard  her  mother  crying  and  her  raving 

father  yell 
That  she  wa'n't  no  child  of  his'n — like  an  actor  in 

a  play 
We  saw  at  Independence,  coming  through  the  other 

day. 

Well!  that's  the  way  we  started.     And  for  days 

and  weeks  and  months 
And  even  years  we  journeyed  on,  regretting  never 

once 

Of  starting  out  together  upon  the  path  of  life — 
A  kind  o'  sorto'  husband,  but  a  mighty  loving 

wife, — 

And  the  cutest  little  baby — little  Grace — I  see  her 

now 
A-standin'  on  the  pig-pen  as  her  mother  milked  the 

cow — 
And  I  can  hear  her  shouting — as  I  stood  unloading 

straw, — 
"I'm  ain't  as  big  as  papa,  but  I'm  biggerest'n  ma." 

Now  folks  that  never  married  don't  seem  to  under 
stand 

That  a  little  baby's  language  is  the  sweetest  ever 
planned — 


GEORGE  MULLEN'S  CONFESSION          207 

Why,  I  tell  you  it's  pure  music,  and  I'll  just  go  on 

to  say 
That  I  sometimes  have  a  notion  that  the  angels  talk 

that  way! 

There's  a  chapter  in  this  story  I'd  be  happy  to  de 
stroy  ; 

I  could  burn  it  up  before  you  with  a  mighty  sight 
of  joy; 

But  I'll  go  ahead  and  give  it — not  in  detail,  no,  my 
friend, 

For  it  takes  five  years  of  reading  before  you  find 
the  end. 

My  Annie's  folks  relented — at  least,  in  some  de 
gree; 

They  sent  one  time  for  Annie,  but  they  didn't  send 
for  me. 

The  old  man  wrote  the  message  with  a  heart  as  hot 
and  dry 

As  a  furnace — "Annie  Mullen,  come  and  see  your 
mother  die." 

I  saw  the  slur  intended — why  I  fancied  I  could  see 
The  old  man  shoot  the  insult  like  a  poison  dart  at 

me; 

And  in  that  heat  of  passion  I  swore  an  inward  oath 
That  if  Annie  pleased  her  father  she  could  never 

please  us  both. 


208  GEORGE  MULLEN'S  CONFESSION 

I  watched  her — dark  and  sullen — as  she  hurried  on 

her  shawl; 
I  watched  her — calm  and  cruel,  though  I  saw  her 

tear-drops  fall; 
I  watched  her — cold  and  heartless,  though  I  heard 

her  moaning,  call 
For  mercy  from  high  Heaven — and  I  smiled 

throughout  it  all. 

Why  even  when  she  kissed  me,  and  her  tears  were 

on  my  brow, 
As  she  murmured,  "George,  forgive  me — I  must  go 

to  mother  now !" 
Such  hate  there  was  within  me  that  I  answered  not 

at  all, 
But  calm,  and  cold  and  cruel,  I  smiled  throughout 

it  all. 

But  a  shadow  in  the  doorway  caught  my  eye,  and 
then  the  face 

Full  of  innocence  and  sunshine  of  little  baby  Grace. 

And  I  snatched  her  up  and  kissed  her,  and  I  soft 
ened  through  and  through 

For  a  minute  when  she  told  me  "I  must  kiss  her 
muvver  too." 

I  remember,  at  the  starting,  how  I  tried  to  freeze 

again 
As  I  watched  them  slowly  driving  down  the  little 

crooked  lane — 


GEORGE  MULLEN'S  CONFESSION  209 

When  Annie  shouted  something  that  ended  in  a 

cry, 
And  how  I  tried  to  whistle  and  it  fizzled  in  a  sigh. 

I  remember  running  after,  with  a  glimmer  in  my 
sight — 

Pretending  I'd  discovered  that  the  traces  wasn't 
right ; 

And  the  last  that  I  remember,  as  they  disappeared 
from  view, 

Was  little  Grace  a-calling,  "I  see  papa!  Howdy- 
do!" 

And  left  alone  to  ponder,  I  again  took  up  my  hate 
For  the  old  man  who  would  chuckle  that  I  was 

desolate ; 
And  I  mouthed  my  wrongs  in  mutters  till  my  pride 

called  up  the  pain 
His  last  insult  had  given  me — until  I  smiled  again 

Till  the  wild  beast  in  my  nature  was  raging  in  the 

den — 
With  no  one  now  to  quell  it,  and  I  wrote  a  letter 

then 
Full  of  hissing  things,  and  heated  with  so  hot  a  heat 

of  hate 
That  my  pen  flashed  out  black  lightning  at  a  most 

terrific  rate. 


210  GEORGE  MULLEN'S  CONFESSION 

I  wrote  that  "she  had  wronged  me  when  she  went 

away  from  me — 
Though  to  see  her  dying  mother  'twas  her  father's 

victory, 
And  a  woman  that  could  waver  when  her  husband's 

pride  was  rent 
Was  no  longer  worthy  of  it."  And  I  shut  the  house 

and  went. 

To  tell  of  my  long  exile  would  be  of  little  good — 

Though  I  couldn't  half-way  tell  it,  and  I  wouldn't 
if  I  could! 

I  could  tell  of  California — of  a  wild  and  vicious 
life; 

Of  trackless  plains,  and  mountains,  and  the  In 
dian's  scalping-knife. 

I  could  tell  of  gloomy  forests  howling  wild  with 

threats  of  death; 
I  could  tell  of  fiery  deserts  that  have  scorched  me 

with  their  breath ; 
I  could  tell  of  wretched  outcasts  by  the  hundreds", 

great  and  small, 
And  could  claim  the  nasty  honor  of  the  greatest  of 

them  all. 

I  could  tell  of  toil  and  hardship;  and  of  sickness 

and  disease, 
And  hollow-eyed  starvation,  but  I  tell  you,  friend, 

that  these 


GEORGE  MULLEN'S  CONFESSION          211 

Are  trifles  in  comparison  with  what  a  fellow  feels 
With  that  bloodhound,  Remorsefulness,  forever  at 
his  heels. 

I  remember — worn  and  weary  of  the  long,  long 
years  of  care, 

When  the  frost  of  time  was  making  early  harvest  of 
my  hair — 

I  remember,  wrecked  and  hopeless  of  a  rest  be 
neath  the  sky, 

My  resolve  to  quit  the  country,  and  to  seek  the 
East,  and  die. 

I  remember  my  long  journey,  like  a  dull,  oppres 
sive  dream, 

Across  the  empty  prairies  till  I  caught  the  distant 
gleam 

Of  a  city  in  the  beauty  of  its  broad  and  shining 
stream 

On  whose  bosom,  flocked  together,  float  the  mighty 
swans  of  steam. 

I  remember  drifting  with  them  till  I  found  myself 

again 
In  the  rush  and  roar  and  rattle  of  the  engine  and 

the  train ; 
And  when  from  my  surroundings  something  spoke 

of  child  and  wife, 
It  seemed  the  train  was  rumbling  through  a  tunnel 

in  my  life. 


212  GEORGE  MULLEN'S  CONFESSION 

Then  I  remember  something — like  a  sudden  burst 

of  light- 
That  don't  exactly  tell  it,  but  I  couldn't  tell  it 

right— 
A  something  clinging  to  me  with  its  arms  around 

my  neck — 
A  little  girl,  for  instance — or  an  angel,  I  expect — 

For  she  kissed  me,  cried  and  called  me  "her  dear 

papa,"  and  I  felt 
My  heart  was  pure  virgin  gold,  and  just  about  to 

melt — 

And  so  it  did — it  melted  in  a  mist  of  gleaming  rain 
When  she  took  my  hand  and  whispered,  "My 

mama's  on  the  train." 

There's  some  things  I  can  dwell  on,  and  get  off 

pretty  well, 

But  the  balance  of  this  story  I  know  I  couldn't  tell ; 
So  I  ain't  going  to  try  it,  for  to  tell  the  reason 

why — 
I'm  so  chicken-hearted  lately  I'd  be  certain  'most 

to  cry. 


"TIRED  OUT" 


'"T^IRED  out  !"    Yet  face  and  brow 

.L  Do  not  look  aweary  now, 
And  the  eyelids  lie  like  two 
Pure,  white  rose-leaves  washed  with  dew. 
Was  her  life  so  hard  a  task  ?  — 
Strange  that  we  forget  to  ask 
What  the  lips  now  dumb  for  aye 
Could  have  told  us  yesterday  ! 

"Tired  out!"    A  faded  scrawl 
Pinned  upon  the  ragged  shawl  — 
Nothing  else  to  leave  a  clue 
Even  of  a  friend  or  two, 
Who  might  come  to  fold  the  hands, 
Or  smooth  back  the  dripping  strands 
Of  her  tresses,  or  to  wet 
Them  anew  with  fond  regret. 

"Tired  out  !"    We  can  but  guess 
Of  her  little  happiness  — 
Long  ago,  in  some  fair  land, 
When  a  lover  held  her  hand 
In  the  dream  that  frees  us  all, 
Soon  or  later,  from  its  thrall  — 
Be  it  either  false  or  true, 
We,  at  last,  must  tire,  too. 
213 


HARLIE 

1  "OLD  the  little  waxen  hands 
JL    Lightly.    Let  your  warmest  tears 
Speak  regrets,  but  never  fears, — 

Heaven  understands! 
Let  the  sad  heart,  o'er  the  tomb, 
Lift  again  and  burst  in  bloom 
Fragrant  with  a  prayer  as  sweet 
As  the  lily  at  your  feet. 

Bend  and  kiss  the  folded  eyes — 
They  are  only  feigning  sleep 
While  their  truant  glances  peep 

Into  Paradise. 

See,  the  face,  though  cold  and  white, 
Holds  a  hint  of  some  delight 
E'en  with  Death,  whose  finger-tips 
Rest  upon  the  frozen  lips. 

When,  within  the  years  to  come, 
Vanished  echoes  live  once  more — 
Pattering  footsteps  on  the  floor, 

And  the  sounds  of  home, — 
Let  your  arms  in  fancy  fold 
Little  Harlie  as  of  old — 
As  of  old  and  as  he  waits 
At  the  City's  golden  gates. 
214 


SAY  SOMETHING  TO  ME 

SAY  something  to  me !    I've  waited  so 
long — 

Waited  and  wondered  in  vain ; 
Only  a  sentence  would  fall  like  a  song 

Over  this  listening  pain — 
Over  a  silence  that  glowers  and  frowns, — 

Even  my  pencil  to-night 
Slips  in  the  dews  of  my  sorrow  and  wounds 
Each  tender  word  that  I  write. 

Say  something  to  me — if  only  to  tell 

Me  you  remember  the  past ; 
Let  the  sweet  words,  like  the  notes  of  a  bell, 

Ring  out  my  vigil  at  last. 
O  it  were  better,  far  better  than  this 

Doubt  and  distrust  in  the  breast, — 
For  in  the  wine  of  a  fanciful  kiss 

I  could  taste  Heaven,  and — rest. 

Say  something  to  me !    I  kneel  and  I  plead, 

In  my  wild  need,  for  a  word ; 
If  my  poor  heart  from  this  silence  were 
freed, 

I  could  soar  up  like  a  bird 
In  the  glad  morning,  and  twitter  and  sing, 

Carol  and  warble  and  cry 
Blithe  as  the  lark  as  he  cruises  awing 

Over  the  deeps  of  the  sky. 
215 


LEONAINIE 

EDNAINIE— Angels  named  her ; 
And  they  took  the  light 
Of  the  laughing  stars  and  framed  her 
In  a  smile  of  white ; 

And  they  made  her  hair  of  gloomy 
Midnight,  and  her  eyes  of  bloomy 
Moonshine,  and  they  brought  her  to 

me 
In  the  solemn  night. — 

In  a  solemn  night  of  summer, 

When  my  heart  of  gloom 
Blossomed  up  to  greet  the  comer 
Like  a  rose  in  bloom ; 

All  forebodings  that  distressed  me 
I  forgot  as  Joy  caressed  me — 
(Lying  Joy!  that  caught  and  pressed 

me 
In  the  arms  of  doom!) 

Only  spake  the  little  lisper 

In  the  Angel-tongue; 
Yet  I,  listening,  heard  her  whisper, — 

"Songs  are  only  sung 
216 


LEONAINIE  217 

Here    below    that    they    may    grieve 

you — 

Tales  but  told  you  to  deceive  you, — 
So  must  Leonainie  leave  you 
While  her  love  is  young." 

Then  God  smiled  and  it  was  morning. 

Matchless  and  supreme 
Heaven's  glory  seemed  adorning 
Earth  with  its  esteem : 

Every  heart  but  mine  seemed  gifted 
With  the  voice  of  prayer,  and  lifted 
Where  my  Leonainie  drifted 
From  me  like  a  dream. 


A  TEST  OF  LOVE 
'Now  who  shall  say  he  loves  me  not." 

HE  wooed  her  first  in  an  atmosphere 
Of  tender  and  low-breathed  sighs ; 
But  the  pang  of  her  laugh  went  cutting  clear 

To  the  soul  of  the  enterprise ; 
"You  beg  so  pert  for  the  kiss  you  seek 

It  reminds  me,  John,"  she  said, 
"Of  a  poodle  pet  that  jumps  to  'speak' 
For  a  crumb  or  a  crust  of  bread." 

And  flashing  up,  with  the  blush  that  flushed 

His  face  like  a  tableau-light, 
Came  a  bitter  threat  that  his  white  lips 

hushed 

To  a  chill,  hoarse-voiced  "Good  night!" 
And  again  her  laugh,  like  a  knell  that  tolled, 

And  a  wide-eyed  mock  surprise, — 
"Why,  John,"  she  said,  "you  have  taken 

cold 

In  the  chill  air  of  your  sighs!" 
218 


A  TEST  OF  LOVE  219 

And  then  he  turned,  and  with  teeth  tight* 
clenched, 

He  told  her  he  hated  her, — 
That  his  love  for  her  from  his  heart  he 
wrenched 

Like  a  corpse  from  a  sepulcher. 
And  then  she  called  him  "a  ghoul  all  red 

With  the  quintessence  of  crimes" — 
"But  I  know  you  love  me  now,"  she  said, 

And  kissed  him  a  hundred  times. 


FATHER  WILLIAM 

A  NEW  VERSION  BY  LEE  O.  HARRIS  AND  JAMES 
WHITCOMB  RILEY 


'A/"OU  are  old,  Father  William,  and  though  one 
X     would  think 

All  the  veins  in  your  body  were  dry, 
Yet  the  end  of  your  nose  is  red  as  a  pink  ; 
I  beg  your  indulgence,  but  why?" 

"You  see,"  Father  William  replied,  "in  my  youth— 

'Tis  a  thing  I  must  ever  regret  — 
It  worried  me  so  to  keep  up  with  the  truth 

That  my  nose  has  a  flush  on  it  yet." 

"You  are  old,"  said  the  youth,  "and  I  grieve  to  de 
tect 

A  feverish  gleam  in  your  eye  ; 
Yet  I'm  willing  to  give  you  full  time  to  reflect. 

Now,  pray,  can  you  answer  me  why?" 

"Alas,"  said  the  sage,  "I  was  tempted  to  choose 

Me  a  wife  in  my  earlier  years, 
And  the  grief,  when  I  think  that  she  didn't  refuse, 

Has  reddened  my  eyelids  with  tears." 
220 


FATHER  WILLIAM  221 

"You  are  old,  Father  William,"  the  young  man  said, 
"And  you  never  touch  wine,  you  declare, 

Yet  you  sleep  with  your  feet  at  the  head  of  the  bed ; 
Now  answer  me  that  if  you  dare." 

"In  my  youth,"  said  the  sage,  "I  was  told  it  was 
true, 

That  the  world  turned  around  in  the  night; 
I  cherished  the  lesson,  my  boy,  and  I  knew 

That  at  morning  my  feet  would  be  right." 

"You  are  old,"  said  the  youth,  "and  it  grieved  me  to 

note, 

As  you  recently  fell  through  the  door, 
That  'full  as  a  goose'  had  been  chalked  on  your 

coat ; 
Now  answer  me  that  I  implore." 

"My  boy,"  said  the  sage,  "I  have  answered  you  fair, 
While  you  stuck  to  the  point  in  dispute, 

But  this  is  a  personal  matter,  and  there 
Is  my  answer — the  toe  of  my  boot." 

I.— 15 


WHAT  THE  WIND  SAID 

/MUSE  to-day,  in  a  listless  way, 
In  the  gleam  of  a  summer  land; 
I  close  my  eyes  as  a  lover  may 

At  the  touch  of  his  sweetheart's  hand, 

And  I  hear  these  things  in  the  whisperings 

Of  the  zephyrs  round  me  fanned: — 

I  am  the  Wind,  and  I  rule  mankind, 

And  I  hold  a  sovereign  reign 
Over  the  lands,  as  God  designed, 

And  the  waters  they  contain: 
Lo !  the  bound  of  the  wide  world  round 

Falleth  in  my  domain ! 

I  was  born  on  a  stormy  morn 
In  a  kingdom  walled  with  snow, 

Whose  crystal  cities  laugh  to  scorn 
The  proudest  the  world  can  show ; 

And  the  daylight's  glare  is  frozen  there 
In  the  breath  of  the  blasts  that  blow. 
222 


WHAT  THE  WIND  SAID  223 

Life  to  me  was  a  jubilee 

From  the  first  of  my  youthful  days : 
Clinking  my  icy  toys  with  glee — 

Playing  my  childish  plays ; 
Filling  my  hands  with  the  silver  sands 

To  scatter  a  thousand  ways : 

Chasing  the  flakes  that  the  Polar  shakes 

From  his  shaggy  coat  of  white, 
Or  hunting  the  trace  of  the  track  he  makes 

And  sweeping  it  from  sight, 
As  he  turned  to  glare  from  the  slippery  stair 

Of  the  iceberg's  farthest  height. 

Till  I  grew  so  strong  that  I  strayed  ere  long 
From  my  home  of  ice  and  chill ; 

With  an  eager  heart  and  a  merry  song 
I  traveled  the  snows  until 

I  heard  the  thaws  in  the  ice-crag's  jaws 
Crunched  with  a  hungry  will ; 

And  the  angry  crash  of  the  waves  that  dash 
Themselves  on  the  jagged  shore 

Where  the  splintered  masts  of  the  ice-wrecks 

flash, 
And  the  frightened  breakers  roar 

In  wild  unrest  on  the  ocean's  breast 
For  a  thousand  leagues  or  more. 


224  WHAT  THE  WIND  SAID 

And  the  grand  old  sea  invited  me 
With  a  million  beckoning  hands, 

And  I  spread  my  wings  for  a  flight  as  free 
As  ever  a  sailor  plans 

When  his  thoughts  are  wild  and  his  heart  be 
guiled 
With  the  dreams  of  foreign  lands. 

I  passed  a  ship  on  its  homeward  trip, 
With  a  weary  and  toil-worn  crew ; 

And  I  kissed  their  flag  with  a  welcome  lip, 
And  so  glad  a  gale  I  blew 

That  the  sailors  quaffed  their  grog  and 

laughed 
At  the  work  I  made  them  do. 

I  drifted  by  where  sea-groves  lie 

Like  brides  in  the  fond  caress 
Of  the  warm  sunshine  and  the  tender  sky — 

Where  the  ocean,  passionless 
And  tranquil,  lies  like  a  child  whose  eyes 

Are  blurred  with  drowsiness. 

I  drank  the  air  and  the  perfume  there, 
And  bathed  in  a  fountain's  spray; 

And  I  smoothed  the  wings  and  the  plumage 

rare 
Of  a  bird  for  his  roundelay, 

And  fluttered  a  rag  from  a  signal-crag 
For  a  wretched  castaway. 


WHAT  THE  WIND  SAID  225 

With  a  sea-gull  resting  on  my  breast, 

I  launched  on  a  madder  flight : 
And  I  lashed  the  waves  to  a  wild  unrest, 

And  howled  with  a  fierce  delight 
Till  the  daylight  slept;  and  I  wailed  and 
wept 

Like  a  fretful  babe  all  night. 

For  I  heard  the  boom  of  a  gun  strike  doom ; 

And  the  gleam  of  a  blood-red  star 
Glared  at  me  through  the  mirk  and  gloom 

From  the  lighthouse  tower  afar ; 
And  I  held  my  breath  at  the  shriek  of  death 

That  came  from  the  harbor  bar. 

For  I  am  the  Wind,  and  I  rule  mankind, 

And  I  hold  a  sovereign  reign 
Over  the  lands,  as  God  designed, 

And  the  waters  they  contain: 
Lo !  the  bound  of  the  wide  world  round 

Falleth  in  my  domain! 

I  journeyed  on,  when  the  night  was  gone, 

O'er  a  coast  of  oak  and  pine; 
And  I  followed  a  path  that  a  stream  had 
drawn 

Through  a  land  of  vale  and  vine, 
And  here  and  there  was  a  village  fair 

In  a  nest  of  shade  and  shine. 


226  WHAT  THE  WIND  SAID 

I  passed  o'er  lakes  where  the  sunshine  shakes 

And  shivers  his  golden  lance 
On  the  glittering  shield  of  the  wave  that 
breaks 

Where  the  fish-boats  dip  and  dance, 
And  the  trader  sails  where  the  mist  unveils 

The  glory  of  old  romance. 

I  joyed  to  stand  where  the  jeweled  hand 

Of  the  maiden-morning  lies 
On  the  tawny  brow  of  the  mountain-land. 

Where  the  eagle  shrieks  and  cries, 
And  holds  his  throne  to  himself  alone 

From  the  light  of  human  eyes. 

Adown  deep  glades  where  the  forest  shades 
Are  dim  as  the  dusk  of  day — 

Where  only  the  foot  of  the  wild  beast  wades, 
Or  the  Indian  dares  to  stray, 

As  the  blacksnakes  glide  through  the  reeds 

and  hide 
In  the  swamp-depths  grim  and  gray. 

And  I  turned  and  fled  from  the  place  of 
dread 

To  the  far-off  haunts  of  men. 
"In  the  city's  heart  is  rest,"  I  said, — 

But  I  found  it  not,  and  when 
I  saw  but  care  and  vice  reign  there 

I  was  filled  with  wrath  again : 


WHAT  THE  WIND  SAID  227 

And  I  blew  a  spark  in  the  midnight  dark 
Till  it  flashed  to  an  angry  flame 

And  scarred  the  sky  with  a  lurid  mark 
As  red  as  the  blush  of  shame : 

And  a  hint  of  hell  was  the  dying  yell 
That  up  from  the  ruins  came. 

The  bells  went  wild,  and  the  black  smoke 
piled 

Its  pillars  against  the  night, 
Till  I  gathered  them,  like  flocks  defiled, 

And  scattered  them  left  and  right, 
While  the  holocaust's  red  tresses  tossed 

As  a  maddened  Fury's  might. 

"Ye  overthrown !"  did  I  jeer  and  groan — 
"Ho !  who  is  your  master  ? — say ! — 

Ye  shapes  that  writhe  in  the  slag  and  moan 
Your  slow-charred  souls  away — 

Ye  worse  than  worst  of  things  accurst — 
Ye  dead  leaves  of  a  day!" 

I  am  the  Wind,  and  I  rule  mankind, 

And  I  hold  a  sovereign  reign 
Over  the  lands,  as  God  designed, 

And  the  waters  they  contain: 
Lo !  the  bound  of  the  wide  world  round 

Falleth  in  my  domain ! 


228  WHAT  THE  WIND  SAID 

I  wake,  as  one  from  a  dream  half  done, 
And  gaze  with  a  dazzled  eye 

On  an  autumn  leaf  like  a  scrap  of  sun 
That  the  -wind  goes  whirling  by, 

While  afar  I  hear,  with  a  chill  of  fear, 
The  winter  storm-king  sigh. 


MORTON 

THE  warm  pulse  of  the  nation  has  grown 
chill ; 

The  muffled  heart  of  Freedom,  like  a  knell, 
Throbs  solemnly  for  one  whose  earthly  will 
Wrought  every  mission  well. 

Whose  glowing  reason  towered  above  the  sea 
Of  dark  disaster  like  a  beacon  light, 

And  led  the  Ship  of  State,  unscathed  and  free, 
Out  of  the  gulfs  of  night. 

When  Treason,  rabid-mouthed,  and  fanged  with 
steel, 

Lay  growling  o'er  the  bones  of  fallen  braves, 
And  when  beneath  the  tyrant's  iron  heel 

Were  ground  the  hearts  of  slaves, 

And  War,  with  all  his  train  of  horrors,  leapt 
Across  the  fortress-walls  of  Liberty 

With  havoc   e'en  the  marble  goddess  wept 
With  tears  of  blood  to  see. 
229 


230  MORTON 

Throughout  it  all  his  brave  and  kingly  mind 
Kept  loyal  vigil  o'er  the  patriot's  vow, 

And  yet  the  flag  he  lifted  to  the  wind 
Is  drooping  o'er  him  now. 

And  Peace — all  pallid  from  the  battle-field 
When  first  again  it  hovered  o'er  the  land 

And  found  his  voice  above  it  like  a  shield, 
Had  nestled  in  his  hand. 

O  throne  of  State  and  gilded  Senate  halls — 
Though  thousands  throng  your  aisles  and  gal 
leries — 

How  empty  are  ye !  and  what  silence  falls 
On  your  hilarities ! 

And  yet,  though  great  the  loss  to  us  appears, 
The  consolation  sweetens  all  our  pain — 

Though  hushed  the  voice,  through  all  the  coming 

years 
Its  echoes  will  remain. 


AN  AUTUMNAL  EXTRAVAGANZA 

WITH  a  sweeter  voice  than  birds 
Dare  to  twitter  in  their  sleep, 
Pipe  for  me  a  tune  of  words, 

Till  my  dancing  fancies  leap 
Into  freedom  vaster  far 
Than  the  realms  of  Reason  are ! 
Sing  for  me  with  wilder  fire 

Than  the  lover  ever  sung, 
From  the  time  he  twanged  the  lyre 

When  the  world  was  baby-young. 

O  my  maiden  Autumn,  you — 

You  have  filled  me  through  and  through 

With  a  passion  so  intense, 

All  of  earthly  eloquence 

Fails,  and  falls,  and  swoons  away 
In  your  presence.    Like  as  one 
Who  essays  to  look  the  sun 

Fairly  in  the  face,  I  say, 
Though  my  eyes  you  dazzle  blind 
Greater  dazzled  is  my  mind. 
So,  my  Autumn,  let  me  kneel 

At  your  feet  and  worship  you ! 
Be  my  sweetheart ;  let  me  feel 
231 


232          AN  AUTUMNAL  EXTRAVAGANZA 

Your  caress ;  and  tell  me  too 
Why  your  smiles  bewilder  me — 
Glancing  into  laughter,  then 
Trancing  into  calm  again, 
Till  your  meaning  drowning  lies 
In  the  dim  depths  of  your  eyes. 
Let  me  see  the  things  you  see 
Down  the  depths  of  mystery ! 
Blow  aside  the  hazy  veil 

From  the  daylight  of  your  face 
With  the  fragrance-ladened  gale 

Of  your  spicy  breath  and  chase 

Every  dimple  to  its  place. 
Lift  your  gipsy  finger-tips 
To  the  roses  of  your  lips, 
And  fling  down  to  me  a  bud — 

But  an  unblown  kiss — but  one—' 
It  shall  blossom  in  my  blood, 

Even  after  life  is  done — 
When  I  dare  to  touch  the  brow 
Your  rare  hair  is  veiling  now — 
When  the  rich,  red-golden  strands 
Of  the  treasure  in  my  hands 
Shall  be  all  of  worldly  worth 
Heaven  lifted  from  the  earth, 
Like  a  banner  to  have  set 
On  its  highest  minaret. 


THE  ROSE 

IT  tossed  its  head  at  the  wooing  breeze ; 
And  the  sun,  like  a  bashful  swain, 
Beamed  on  it  through  the  waving  trees 

With  a  passion  all  in  vain, — 
For  my  rose  laughed  in  a  crimson  glee, 
And  hid  in  the  leaves  in  wait  for  me. 

The  honey-bee  came  there  to  sing 

His  love  through  the  languid  hours, 

And  vaunt  of  his  hives,  as  a  proud  old  king 
Might  boast  of  his  palace-towers: 

But  my  rose  bowed  in  a  mockery, 

And  hid  in  the  leaves  in  wait  for  me. 

The  humming-bird,  like  a  courtier  gay, 
Dipped  down  with  a  dalliant  song, 

And  twanged  his  wings  through  the  roundelay 
Of  love  the  whole  day  long: 

Yet  my  rose  turned  from  his  minstrelsy 

And  hid  in  the  leaves  in  wait  for  me, 
233 


234  THE  ROSE 

The  firefly  came  in  the  twilight  dim 

My  red,  red  rose  to  woo — 
Till  quenched  was  the  flame  of  love  in  him, 

And  the  light  of  his  lantern  too, 
As  my  rose  wept  with  dewdrops  three 
And  hid  in  the  leaves  in  wait  for  me. 

And  I  said :  I  will  cull  my  own  sweet  rose — 

Some  day  I  will  claim  as  mine 
The  priceless  worth  of  the  flower  that  knows 

No  change,  but  a  bloom  divine — 
The  bloom  of  a  fadeless  constancy 
That  hides  in  the  leaves  in  wait  for  me! 

But  time  passed  by  in  a  strange  disguise, 

And  I  marked  it  not,  but  lay 
In  a  lazy  dream,  with  drowsy  eyes, 

Till  the  summer  slipped  away, 
And  a  chill  wind  sang  in  a  minor  key : 
"Where  is  the  rose  that  waits  for  thee  ?" 

I  dream  to-day,  o'er  a  purple  stain 

Of  bloom  on  a  withered  stalk, 
Pelted  down  by  the  autumn  rain 

In  the  dust  of  the  garden-walk, 
That  an  Angel-rose  in  the  world  to  be 
Will  hide  in  the  leaves  iv  wait  for  me. 


THE  MERMAN 


WHO  would  be 
A  merman  gay, 
Singing  alone, 
Sitting  alone, 
With  a  mermaid's  knee, 
For  instance — hey — 
For  a  throne? 

II 

I  would  be  a  merman  gay ; 

I  would  sit  and  sing  the  whole  day  long ; 
I  would  fill  my  lungs  with  the  strongest  brine, 

And  squirt  it  up  in  a  spray  of  song, 
And  soak  my  head  in  my  liquid  voice; 

I'd  curl  my  tail  in  curves  divine, 
And  let  each  curve  in  a  kink  rejoice. 

I'd  tackle  the  mermaids  under  the  sea, 
And  yank  'em  around  till  they  yanked  me, 

Sportively,  sportively ; 
And  then  we  would  wiggle  away,  away, 
To  the  pea-green  groves  on  the  coast  of  day, 
Chasing  each  other  sportively. 
235 


236  THE  MERMAN 

III 

There  would  be  neither  moon  nor  star ; 
But  the  waves  would  twang  like  a  wet  guitar- 
Low  thunder  and  thrum  in  the  darkness  grum- 

Neither  moon  nor  star ; 
We  would  shriek  aloud  in  the  dismal  dales — 
Shriek  at  each  other  and  squawk  and  squeal, 

"All  night!"  rakishly,  rakishly; 
They  would  pelt  me  with  oysters  and 

wiggletails, 
Laughing  and  clapping  their  hands  at  me, 

"All  night !"  prankishly,  prankishly ; 
But  I  would  toss  them  back  in  mine, 
Lobsters  and  turtles  of  quaint  design; 
Then  leaping  out  in  an  abrupt  way, 
I'd  snatch  them  bald  in  my  devilish  glee, 
And  skip  away  when  they  snatched  at  me, 

Fiendishly,  fiendishly. 
O,  what  a  jolly  life  I'd  lead, 
Ah,  what  a  "bang-up"  life  indeed! 
Soft  are  the  mermaids  under  the  sea — 
We  would  live  merrily,  merrily. 


THE  RAINY  MORNING 

'"TTVHE  dawn  of  the  day  was  dreary, 

-L       And  the  lowering  clouds  o'erhead 
Wept  in  a  silent  sorrow 

Where  the  sweet  sunshine  lay  dead; 
And  a  wind  came  out  of  the  eastward 

Like  an  endless  sigh  of  pain, 
And  the  leaves  fell  down  in  the  pathway 

And  writhed  in  the  falling  rain. 

I  had  tried  in  a  brave  endeavor 

To  chord  my  harp  with  the  sun, 
But  the  strings  would  slacken  ever, 

And  the  task  was  a  weary  one: 
And  so,  like  a  child  impatient 

And  sick  of  a  discontent, 
I  bowed  in  a  shower  of  tear-drops 

And  mourned  with  the  instrument. 

And  lo !  as  I  bowed,  the  splendor 

Of  the  sun  bent  over  me, 
With  a  touch  as  warm  and  tender 

As  a  father's  hand  might  be : 
And,  even  as  I  felt  its  presence, 

My  clouded  soul  grew  bright, 
And  the  tears,  like  the  rain  of  morning, 

Melted  in  mists  of  light, 
i.-ie  237 


WE  ARE  NOT  ALWAYS  GLAD  WHEN 
WE  SMILE 

WE  are  not  always  glad  when  we  smile : 
Though  we  wear  a  fair  face  and  are  gay, 
And  the  world  we  deceive 
May  not  ever  believe 
We  could  laugh  in  a  happier  way. — 
Yet,  down  in  the  deeps  of  the  soul, 
Ofttiraes,  with  our  faces  aglow, 
There's  an  ache  and  a  moan 
That  we  know  of  alone, 
And  as  only  the  hopeless  may  know. 

We  are  not  always  glad  when  we  smile,*— 
For  the  heart,  in  a  tempest  of  pain, 
May  live  in  the  guise 
Of  a  smile  in  the  eyes 
As  a  rainbow  may  live  in  the  rain ; 
And  the  stormiest  night  of  our  woe 
May  hang  out  a  radiant  star 
Whose  light  in  the  sky 
Of  despair  is  a  lie 
As  black  as  the  thunder-clouds  are. 
238 


WE  ARE  NOT  ALWAYS  GLAD  239 

We  are  not  always  glad  when  we  smile ! — 
But  the  conscience  is  quick  to  record, 

All  the  sorrow  and  sin 

We  are  hiding  within 
Is  plain  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord : 
And  ever,  O  ever,  till  pride 
And  evasion  shall  cease  to  defile 

The  sacred  recess 

Of  the  soul,  we  confess 
We  are  not  always  glad  when  we  smile. 


A  SUMMER  SUNRISE 


AFTER  LEE  0.  HARRIS 

master-hand  whose  pencils  trace 
-L       This  wondrous  landscape  of  the  morn, 
Is  but  the  sun,  whose  glowing  face 
Reflects  the  rapture  and  the  grace 
Of  inspiration  Heaven-born. 

And  yet  with  vision-dazzled  eyes, 

I  see  the  lotus-lands  of  old, 
Where  odorous  breezes  fall  and  rise, 
And  mountains,  peering  in  the  skies, 

Stand  ankle-deep  in  lakes  of  gold. 

And,  spangled  with  the  shine  and  shade, 

I  see  the  rivers  raveled  out 
In  strands  of  silver,  slowly  fade 
In  threads  of  light  along  the  glade 

Where  truant  roses  hide  and  pout. 
240 


A  SUMMER  SUNRISE  241 

The  tamarind  on  gleaming  sands 
Droops  drowsily  beneath  the  heat; 

And  bowed  as  though  aweary,  stands 

The  stately  palm,  with  lazy  hands 

That  fold  their  shadows  round  his  feet. 

And  mistily,  as  through  a  veil, 

I  catch  the  glances  of  a  sea 
Of  sapphire,  dimpled  with  a  gale 
Toward  Colch's  blowing,  where  the  sail 

Of  Jason's  Argo  beckons  me. 

And  gazing  on  and  farther  yet, 

I  see  the  isles  enchanted,  bright 
With  fretted  spire  and  parapet, 
And  gilded  mosque  and  minaret, 

That  glitter  in  the  crimson  light. 

But  as  I  gaze,  the  city's  walls 
Are  keenly  smitten  with  a  gleam 

Of  pallid  splendor,  that  appalls 

The  fancy  as  the  ruin  falls 
In  ashen  embers  of  a  dream. 

Yet  over  all  the  waking  earth 

The  tears  of  night  are  brushed  away, 

And  eyes  are  lit  with  love  and  mirth, 

And  benisons  of  richest  worth 
Go  up  to  bless  the  new-born  day. 


DAS  KRIST  KINDEL 


I   HAD  fed  the  fire  and  stirred  it,  till  the  sparkles 
in  delight 

Snapped  their  saucy  little  fingers  at  the  chill  De 
cember  night; 
And  in  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  I  had  tilted  back 

"my  throne" — 

The  old  split-bottomed  rocker — and  was  musing  all 
alone. 


I  could  hear  the  hungry  Winter  prowling  round  the 

outer  door, 
And  the  tread  of  muffled  footsteps  on  the  white 

piazza,  floor; 
But  the  sounds  came  to  me  only  as  the  murmur  of 

a  stream 
That  mingled  with  the  current  of  a  lazy-flowing 

dream. 

Like  a  fragrant  incense  rising,  curled  the  smoke  of 
my  cigar, 

With  the  lamplight  gleaming  through  it  like  a  mist- 
enfolded  star; — 

.242 


DAS  KRIST  KINDEL  243 

And  as  I  gazed,  the  vapor  like  a  curtain  rolled  away, 
With  a  sound  of  bells  that  tinkled,  and  the  clatter 
of  a  sleigh. 

And  in  a  vision,  painted  like  a  picture  in  the  air, 
I  saw  the  elfish  figure  of  a  man  with  frosty  hair — 
A  quaint  old  man  that  chuckled  with  a  laugh  as  he 

appeared, 
And  with  ruddy  cheeks  like  embers  in  the  ashes  of 

his  beard. 

He  poised  himself  grotesquely,  in  an  attitude  of 

mirth, 
On  a  damask-covered  hassock  that  was  sitting  on 

the  hearth; 

And  at  a  magic  signal  of  his  stubby  little  thumb, 
I  saw  the  fireplace  changing  to  a  bright  proscenium. 

And  looking  there,  I  marveled  as  I  saw  a  mimic 
stage 

Alive  with  little  actors  of  a  very  tender  age; 

And  some  so  very  tiny  that  they  tottered  as  they 
walked, 

And  lisped  and  purled  and  gurgled  like  the  brook 
lets,  when  they  talked. 

And  their  faces  were  like  lilies,  and  their  eyes  like 

purest  dew, 
And  their  tresses  like  the  shadows  that  the  shine  is 

woven  through; 


244  DAS  KRIST  KINDEL 

And  they  each  had  little  burdens,  and  a  little  tale 

to  tell 
Of  fairy  lore,  and  giants,  and  delights  delectable. 

And  they  mixed  and  intermingled,  weaving  melody 

with  joy, 
Till  the  magic  circle  clustered  round  a  blooming 

baby-boy ; 
And  they  threw  aside  their  treasures  in  an  ecstacy 

of  glee, 
And  bent,  with  dazzled  faces  and  with  parted  lips, 

to  see. 

Twas  a  wondrous  little  fellow,  with  a  dainty  dou 
ble-chin, 

And  chubby  cheeks,  and  dimples  for  the  smiles  to 
blossom  in ; 

And  he  looked  as  ripe  and  rosy,  on  his  bed  of  straw 
and  reeds, 

As  a  mellow  little  pippin  that  had  tumbled  in  the 
weeds. 

And  I  saw  the  happy  mother,  and  a  group  sur 
rounding  her 

That  knelt  with  costly  presents  of  frankincense  and 
myrrh  ; 

And  I  thrilled  with  awe  and  wonder,  as  a  murmur 
on  the  air 

Came  drifting  o'er  the  hearing  in  a  melody  of 
prayer : — 


DAS  KRIST  KINDEL  245 

By  the  splendor  in  the  heavens,  and  the  hush  upon 

the  sea, 

And  the  majesty  of  silence  reigning  over  Galilee, — 
We  feel  Thy  kingly  presence,  and  we  humbly  bow 

the  knee 
And  lift  our  hearts  and  voices  in  gratefulness  to 

Thee. 

Thy  messenger  has  spoken,  and  our  doubts  have 
fled  and  gone 

As  the  dark  and  spectral  shadows  of  the  night  be 
fore  the  dawn; 

And,  in  the  kindly  shelter  of  the  light  around  us 
drawn, 

We  zvould  nestle  down  forever  in  the  breast  we 
lean  upon. 

You  have  given  us  a  shepherd — You  have  given 

us  a  guide, 
And  the  light  of  Heaven  grew  dimmer  when  You 

sent  him  from  Your  side, — 
But  he  comes  to  lead  Thy  children  where  the  gates 

will  open  wide 
To   welcome   his  returning   when   his  works  are 

glorified. 

By  the  splendor  in  the  heavens,  and  the  hush  upon 

the  sea, 
And  the  majesty  of  silence  reigning  over  Galilee- - 


246  DAS  KRIST  KINDEL 

We  feel  Thy  kingly  presence,  and  we  humbly  bow 

the  knee 
And  lift  our  hearts  and  voices  in  gratefulness  to 

Thee. 

Then  the  vision,  slowly  failing,  with  the  words  of 
the  refrain, 

Fell  swooning  in  the  moonlight  through  the  frosty 
window-pane ; 

And  I  heard  the  clock  proclaiming,  like  an  eager 
sentinel 

Who  brings  the  world  good  tidings, — "It  is  Christ 
mas — all  is  well!" 


AN  OLD  YEAR'S  ADDRESS 

"T   HAVE  twankled  the  strings  of  the  twinkering 
JL          rain ; 

I  have  burnished  the  meteor's  mail ; 
I  have  bridled  the  wind 
When  he  whinnied  and  whined 
With  a  bunch  of  stars  tied  to  his  tail ; 
But  my  sky-rocket  hopes,  hanging  over  the  past, 
Must  f  uzzle  and  f  azzle  and  fizzle  at  last !" 

I  had  waded  far  out  in  a  drizzling  dream, 
And  my  fancies  had  spattered  my  eyes 
With  a  vision  of  dread, 
With  a  number  ten  head, 
And  a  form  of  diminutive  size — 
That  wavered  and  wagged  in  a  singular  way 
As  he  wound  himself  up  and  proceeded  to  say, — 

"I  have  trimmed  all  my  corns  with  the  blade  of  the 

moon; 

I  have  picked  every  tooth  with  a  star : 
And  I  thrill  to  recall 
That  I  went  through  it  all 
Like  a  tune  through  a  tickled  guitar. 
247 


248  AN  OLD  YEAR'S  ADDRESS 

I  have  ripped  up  the  rainbow  and  raveled  the  ends 
When  the  sun  and  myself  were  particular  friends." 

And  pausing  again,  and  producing  a  sponge 
And  wiping  the  tears  from  his  eyes, 
He  sank  in  a  chair 
With  a  technical  air 
That  he  struggled  in  vain  to  disguise, — 
For  a  sigh  that  he  breathed,  as  I  over  him  leant, 
Was  haunted  and  hot  with  a  peppermint  scent. 

"Alas!"  he  continued  in  quavering  tones 
As  a  pang  rippled  over  his  face, 
"The  life  was  too  fast 
For  the  pleasure  to  last 
In  my  very  unfortunate  case ; 
And  I'm  going" — he  said  as  he  turned  to  adjust 
A  fuse  in  his  bosom, — "I'm  going  to — BUST !" 

I  shrieked  and  awoke  with  the  sullen  che-boom 
Of  a  five-pounder  filling  my  ears ; 
And  a  roseate  bloom 
Of  a  light  in  the  room 
I  saw  through  the  mist  of  my  tears, — 
But  my  guest  of  the  night  never  saw  the  display, 
He  had  fuzzled  and  fazzled  and  fizzled  away! 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  PLAINT 

In  words  like  weeds,  I'll  wrap  me  o'er, 
Like  coarsest  clothes  against  the  cold; 
But  that  large  grief  which  these  enfold 

Is  given  in  outline  and  no  more. 

— TENNYSON. 

/"~pvHE  bells  that  lift  their  yawning  throats 

-L       And  lolling  tongues  with  wrangling  cries 
Flung  up  in  harsh,  discordant  notes, 

As  though  in  anger,  at  the  skies, — 
Are  filled  with  echoings  replete, 

With  purest  tinkles  of  delight — 
So  I  would  have  a  something  sweet 

Ring  in  the  song  I  sing  to-night. 

As  when  a  blotch  of  ugly  guise 

On  some  poor  artist's  naked  floor 
Becomes  a  picture  in  his  eyes, 

And  he  forgets  that  he  is  poor, — 
So  I  look  out  upon  the  night, 

That  ushers  in  the  dawning  year, 
And  in  a  vacant  blur  of  light 

I  see  these  fantasies  appear. 
249 


250  A  NEW  YEAR'S  PLAINT 

I  see  a  home  whose  windows  gleam 

Like  facets  of  a  mighty  gem 
That  some  poor  king's  distorted  dream 

Has  fastened  in  his  diadem. 
And  I  behold  a  throng  that  reels 

In  revelry  of  dance  and  mirth, 
With  hearts  of  love  beneath  their  heels, 

And  in  their  bosoms  hearts  of  earth. 

O  Luxury,  as  false  and  grand 

As  in  the  mystic  tales  of  old, 
When  genii  answered  man's  command, 

And  built  of  nothing  halls  of  gold ! 
O  Banquet,  bright  with  pallid  jets, 

And  tropic  blooms,  and  vases  caught 
In  palms  of  naked  statuettes, 

Ye  can  not  color  as  ye  ought ! 

For,  crouching  in  the  storm  without, 

I  see  the  figure  of  a  child, 
In  little  ragged  roundabout, 

Who  stares  with  eyes  that  never  smiled — 
And  he,  in  fancy  can  but  taste 

The  dainties  of  the  kingly  fare, 
And  pick  the  crumbs  that  go  to  waste 

Where  none  have  learned  to  kneel  in  prayer. 

Go,  Pride,  and  throw  your  goblet  down — 
The  "merry  greeting"  best  appears 

On  loving  lips  that  never  drown 
Its  worth  but  in  the  wine  of  tears ; 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  PLAINT  251 

Go,  close  your  coffers  like  your  hearts, 
And  shut  your  hearts  against  the  poor, 

Go,  strut  through  all  your  pretty  parts 
But  take  the  "Welcome"  from  your  door. 


LUTHER  BENSON 

AFTER   READING    HIS   AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

POOR  victim  of  that  vulture  curse 
That  hovers  o'er  the  universe, 
With  ready  talons  quick  to  strike 
In  every  human  heart  alike, 
And  cruel  beak  to  stab  and  tear 
In  virtue's  vitals  everywhere, — 
You  need  no  sympathy  of  mine 
To  aid  you,  for  a  strength  divine 
Encircles  you,  and  lifts  you  clear 
Above  this  earthly  atmosphere. 

And  yet  I  can  but  call  you  poor, 
As,  looking  through  the  open  door 
Of  your  sad  life,  I  only  see 
A  broad  landscape  of  misery, 
And  catch  through  mists  of  pitying  tears 
The  ruins  of  your  younger  years, 
I  see  a  father's  shielding  arm 
Thrown  round  you  in  a  wild  alarm — 
Struck  down,  and  powerless  to  free 
Or  aid  you  in  your  agony. 
252 


LUTHER  BENSON  253 

I  see  a  happy  home  grow  dark 

And  desolate — the  latest  spark 

Of  hope  is  passing  in  eclipse — 

The  prayer  upon  a  mother's  lips 

Has  fallen  with  her  latest  breath 

In  ashes  on  the  lips  of  death — 

I  see  a  penitent  who  reels, 

And  writhes,  and  clasps  his  hands,  and 

kneels, 

And  moans  for  mercy  for  the  sake 
Of  that  fond  heart  he  dared  to  break. 

And  lo!  as  when  in  Galilee 
A  voice  above  the  troubled  sea 
Commanded  "Peace ;  be  still !"  the  flood 
That  rolled  in  tempest-waves  of  blood 
Within  you,  fell  in  calm  so  sweet 
It  ripples  round  the  Saviour's  feet; 
And  all  your  noble  nature  thrilled 
With  brightest  hope  and  faith,  and  filled 
Your  thirsty  soul  with  joy  and  peace 
And  praise  to  Him  who  gave  release. 

I— 17 


"DREAM" 

T)ECAUSE  her  eyes  were  far  too  deep 
-D  And  holy  for  a  laugh  to  leap 
Across  the  brink  where  sorrow  tried 
To  drown  within  the  amber  tide; 
Because  the  looks,  whose  ripples  kissed 
The  trembling  lids  through  tender  mist, 
Were  dazzled  with  a  radiant  gleam — 
Because  of  this  I  called  her  "Dream." 

Because  the  roses  growing  wild 
About  her  features  when  she  smiled 
Were  ever  dewed  with  tears  that  fell 
With  tenderness  ineffable; 
Because  her  lips  might  spill  a  kiss 
That,  dripping  in  a  world  like  this, 
Would  tincture  death's  myrrh-bitter  stream 
To  sweetness — so  I  called  her  "Dream." 

Because  I  could  not  understand 
The  magic  touches  of  a  hand 
That  seemed,  beneath  her  strange  control, 
To  smooth  the  plumage  of  the  soul 
254 


"DREAM"  255 

And  calm  it,  till,  with  folded  wings, 
It  half   forgot  its  flutterings, 
And,  nestled  in  her  palm,  did  seem 
To  trill  a  song  that  called  her  "Dream." 

Because  I  saw  her,  in  a  sleep 
As  dark  and  desolate  and  deep 
And  fleeting  as  the  taunting  night 
That  flings  a  vision  of  delight 
To  some  lorn  martyr  as  he  lies 
In  slumber  ere  the  day  he  dies — 
Because  she  vanished  like  a  gleam 
Of  glory,  do  I  call  her  "Dream." 


WHEN  EVENING  SHADOWS  FALL 

WHEN  evening  shadows  fall, 
She  hangs  her  cares  away 
Like  empty  garments  on  the  wall 

That  hides  her  from  the  day ; 
And  while  old  memories  throng, 

And  vanished  voices  call, 
She  lifts  her  grateful  heart  in  song 
When  evening  shadows  fall. 

Her  weary  hands  forget 

The  burdens  of  the  day. 
The  weight  of  sorrow  and  regret 

In  music  rolls  away; 
And  from  the  day's  dull  tomb, 

That  holds  her  in  its  thrall, 
Her  soul  springs  up  in  lily  bloom 

When  evening  shadows  fall. 

O  weary  heart  and  hand, 

Go  bravely  to  the  strife — 
No  victory  is  half  so  grand 

As  that  which  conquers  life! 
256 


WHEN  EVENING  SHADOWS  FALL         257 

One  day  shall  yet  be  thine — 

The  day  that  waits  for  all 
Whose  prayerful  eyes  are  things  divine 

When  evening  shadows  fall. 


YLLADMAR 

HER  hair  was,  oh,  so  dense  a  blur 
Of  darkness,  midnight  envied  her ; 
And  stars  grew  dimmer  in  the  skies 
To  see  the  glory  of  her  eyes ; 
And  all  the  summer  rain  of  light 
That  showered  from  the  moon  at  night 
Fell  o'er  her  features  as  the  gloom 
Of  twilight  o'er  a  lily-bloom. 

The  crimson  fruitage  of  her  lips 
Was  ripe  and  lush  with  sweeter  wine 
Than  burgundy  or  muscadine 
Or  vintage  that  the  burgher  sips 
In  some  old  garden  on  the  Rhine : 
And  I  to  taste  of  it  could  well 
Believe  my  heart  a  crucible 
Of  molten  love — and  I  could  feel 
The  drunken  soul  within  me  reel 
And  rock  and  stagger  till  it  fell. 
25? 


YLLADMAR  259 

And  do  you  wonder  that  I  bowed 
Before  her  splendor  as  a  cloud 
Of  storm  the  golden-sandaled  sun 
Had  set  his  conquering  foot  upon  ? 
And  did  she  will  it,  I  could  lie 
In  writhing  rapture  down  and  die 
A  death  so  full  of  precious  pain 
I'd  waken  up  to  die  again. 


A  FANTASY 

A  FANTASY  that  came  to  me 

JL\      As  wild  and  wantonly  designed 

As  ever  any  dream  might  be 

Unraveled  from  a  madman's  mind,- 

A  tangle-work  of  tissue,  wrought 
By  cunning  of  the  spider-brain, 
And  woven,  in  an  hour  of  pain, 

To  trap  the  giddy  flies  of  thought. 

I  stood  beneath  a  summer  moon 
All  swollen  to  uncanny  girth, 

And  hanging,  like  the  sun  at  noon, 
Above  the  center  of  the  earth; 
But  with  a  sad  and  sallow  light, 
As  it  had  sickened  of  the  night 

And  fallen  in  a  pallid  swoon. 

Around  me  I  could  hear  the  rush 
Of  sullen  winds,  and  feel  the  whir 

Of  unseen  wings  apast  me  brush 
Like  phantoms  round  a  sepulcher; 

And,  like  a  carpeting  of  plush, 
260 


A  FANTASY  261 

A  lawn  unrolled  beneath  my  feet, 
Bespangled  o'er  with  flowers  as  sweet 
To  look  upon  as  those  that  nod 
Within  the  garden-fields  of  God, 
But  odorless  as  those  that  blow 
In  ashes  in  the  shades  below. 

And  on  my  hearing  fell  a  storm 

Of  gusty  music,  sadder  yet 

Than  every  whimper  of  regret 
That  sobbing  utterance  could  form, 

And  patched  with  scraps  of  sound  that  seemed 

Torn  out  of  tunes  that  demons  dreamed, 

And  pitched  to  such  a  piercing  key, 

It  stabbed  the  ear  with  agony; 

And  when  at  last  it  lulled  and  died, 

I  stood  aghast  and  terrified. 
I  shuddered  and  I  shut  my  eyes, 

And  still  could  see,  and  feel  aware 

Some  mystic  presence  waited  there; 
And  staring,  with  a  dazed  surprise, 

I  saw  a  creature  so  divine 

That  never  subtle  thought  of  mine 

May  reproduce  to  inner  sight 

So  fair  a  vision  of  delight. 

A  syllable  of  dew  that  drips 
From  out  a  lily's  laughing  lips 
Could  not  be  sweeter  than  the  word 
I  listened  to,  yet  never  heard. — 


262  A  FANTASY 

For,  oh,  the  woman  hiding  there 

Within  the  shadows  of  her  hair, 

Spake  to  me  in  an  undertone 

So  delicate,  my  soul  alone 

But  understood  it  as  a  moan 

Of  some  weak  melody  of  wind 

A  heavenward  breeze  had  left  behind. 

A  tracery  of  trees,  grotesque 
Against  the  sky,  behind  her  seen, 

Like  shapeless  shapes  of  arabesque 
Wrought  in  an  Oriental  screen; 

And  tall,  austere  and  statuesque 

She  loomed  before  it — e'en  as  though 

The  spirit-hand  of  Angelo 

Had  chiseled  her  to  life  complete, 

With  chips  of  moonshine  round  her  feet. 

And  I  grew  jealous  of  the  dusk, 
To  see  it  softly  touch  her  face, 
As  lover-like,  with  fond  embrace, 

It  folded  round  her  like  a  husk: 

But  when  the  glitter  of  her  hand, 
Like  wasted  glory,  beckoned  me, 
My  eyes  grew  blurred  and  dull  and  dim- 
My  vision  failed — I  could  not  see — 

I  could  not  stir — I  could  but  stand, 
Till,  quivering  in  every  limb, 
I  flung  me  prone,  as  though  to  swim 


A  FANTASY  263 

The  tide  of  grass  whose  waves  of  green 
Went  rolling  ocean-wide  between 
My  helpless  shipwrecked  heart  and  her 
Who  claimed  me  for  a  worshiper. 

And  writhing  thus  in  my  despair, 
I  heard  a  weird,  unearthly  sound, 
That  seemed  to  lift  me  from  the  ground 

And  hold  me  floating  in  the  air. 

I  looked,  and  lo!  I  saw  her  bow 
Above  a  harp  within  her  hands ; 

A  crown  of  blossoms  bound  her  brow, 
And  on  her  harp  were  twisted   strands 

Of  silken  starlight,  rippling  o'er 

With  music  never  heard  before 

By  mortal  ears ;  and,  at  the  strain, 

I  felt  my  Spirit  snap  its  chain 

And  break  away, — and  I  could  see 

It  as  it  turned  and  fled  from  me 

To  greet   its  mistress,   where   she   smiled 

To  see  the  phantom  dancing  wild 

And  wizard-like  before  the  spell 

Her  mystic  fingers  knew  so  well. 


A  DREAM 

I  DREAMED  I  was  a  spider ; 
A  big,  fat,  hungry  spider ; 
A  lusty,  rusty  spider 

With  a  dozen  palsied  limbs ; 
With  a  dozen  limbs  that  dangled 
Where  three  wretched  flies  were  tangled 
And  their  buzzing  wings  were  strangled 
In  the  middle  of  their  hymns. 

And  I  mocked  them  like  a  demon — 

A  demoniacal  demon 

Who  delights  to  be  a  demon 

For  the  sake  of  sin  alone ^ 
And  with  fondly  false  embraces 
Did  I  weave  my  mystic  laces 
Round  their  horror-stricken  faces 

Till  I  muffled  every  groan. 

And  I  smiled  to  see  them  weeping, 
For  to  see  an  insect  weeping, 
Sadly,  sorrowfully  weeping, 
Fattens  every  spider's  mirth ; 
264 


A  DREAM  265 

And  to  note  a  fly's  heart  quaking, 
And  with  anguish  ever  aching 
Till  you  see  it  slowly  breaking 
Is  the  sweetest  thing  on  earth. 

I  experienced  a  pleasure, 
Such  a  highly-flavored  pleasure, 
Such  intoxicating  pleasure, 

That  I  drank  of  it  like  wine ; 
And  my  mortal  soul  engages 
That  no  spider  on  the  pages 
Of  the  history  of  ages 

Felt  a  rapture  more  divine. 

I  careened  around  and  capered — 

Madly,  mystically  capered — 

For  three  days  and  nights  I  capered 

Round  my  web  in  wild  delight ; 
Till  with  fierce  ambition  burning, 
And  an  inward  thirst  and  yearning 
I  hastened  my  returning 

With  a  fiendish  appetite. 

And  I  found  my  victims  dying, 

"Ha !"  they  whispered,  "we  are  dying !" 

Faintly  whispered,  "we  are  dying, 

And  our  earthly  course  is  run." 
And  the  scene  was  so  impressing 
That  I  breathed  a  special  blessing, 
As  I  killed  them  with  caressing 

And  devoured  them  one  by  one. 


DREAMER,  SAY 

DREAMER,  say,  will  you  dream  for  me 
A  wild  sweet  dream  of  a  foreign  land, 
Whose  border  sips  of  a  foaming  sea 

With  lips  of  coral  and  silver  sand; 
Where  warm  winds  loll  on  the  shady  deeps, 

Or  lave  themselves  in  the  tearful  mist 
The  great  wild  wave  of  the  breaker  weeps 
O'er  crags  of  opal  and  amethyst  ? 

Dreamer,  say,  will  you  dream  a  dream 

Of  tropic  shades  in  the  lands  of  shine, 
Where  the  lily  leans  o'er  an  amber  stream 

That  flows  like  a  rill  of  wasted  wine, — 
Where  the  palm-trees,   lifting  their   shields   of 
green, 

Parry  the  shafts  of  the  Indian  sun 
Whose  splintering  vengeance  falls  between 

The  reeds  below  where  the  waters  run? 
266 


DREAMER.  SAY  267 

Dreamer,  say,  will  you  dream  of  love 

That  lives  in  a  land  of  sweet  perfume, 
Where  the  stars  drip  down  from  the  skies  above 

In  molten  spatters  of  bud  and  bloom  ? 
Where  never  the  weary  eyes  are  wet, 

And  never  a  sob  in  the  balmy  air, 
And  only  the  laugh  of  the  paroquet 

Breaks  the  sleep  of  the  silence  there? 


BRYANT 

THE  harp  has  fallen  from  the  master's  hand ; 
Mute  is  the  music,  voiceless  are  the  strings, 

Save  such  faint  discord  as  the  wild  wind  flings 
In  sad  ^olian  murmurs  through  the  land. 
The  tide  of  melody,  whose  billows  grand 

Flowed  o'er  the  world  in  clearest  utterings, 

Now,  in  receding  current,  sobs  and  sings 
That  song  we  never  wholly  understand. 
*    *    O,  eyes  where  glorious  prophecies  belong, 

And  gracious  reverence  to  humbly  bow, 
And  kingly  spirit,  proud,  and  pure,  and  strong; 

O,  pallid  minstrel  with  the  laureled  brow, 
And  lips  so  long  attuned  to  sacred  song, 

How  sweet  must  be  the  Heavenly  anthem  now ! 


268 


BABYHOOD 

HEIGH-HO !  Babyhood !    Tell  me  where  you 
linger ! 

Let's  toddle  home  again,  for  we  have  gone  astray ; 
Take  this  eager  hand  of  mine  and  lead  me  by  the 

finger 
Back  to  the  lotus-lands  of  the  far-away ! 

Turn   back   the   leaves   of   life. — Don't    read   the 
story. — 

Let's  find  the  pictures,  and  fancy  all  the  rest ; 
We  can  fill  the  written  pages  with  a  brighter  glory 

Than  old  Time,  the  story-teller,  at  his  very  best. 

Turn  to  the  brook  where  the  honeysuckle  tipping 
O'er  its  vase  of  perfume  spills  it  on  the  breeze, 
And  the  bee  and  humming-bird  in  ecstacy  are  sip 
ping 

From  the  fairy  flagons  of  the  blooming  locust- 
trees. 
I.-18  269 


270  BABYHOOD 

Turn  to  the  lane  where  we  used  to  "teeter-totter," 
Printing  little  foot-palms  in  the  mellow  mold — 

Laughing  at  the  lazy  cattle  wading  in  the  water 
Where  the  ripples  dimple  round  the  buttercups  of 
gold; 

Where  the  dusky  turtle  lies  basking  on  the  gravel 
Of  the  sunny  sand-bar  in  the  middle  tide, 

And  the  ghostly  dragon-fly  pauses  in  his  travel 
To  rest  like  a  blossom  where  the  water-lily  died. 

Heigh-ho !  Babyhood !  Tell  me  where  you  linger ! 

Let's  toddle  home  again,  for  we  have  gone  astray ; 
Take  this  eager  hand  of  mine  and  lead  me  by  the 
finger 

Back  to  the  lotus-lands  of  the  far-away ! 


LIBERTY 

NEW   CASTLE,    JULY   4,    1878 

I 

FVDR  a  hundred  years  the  pulse  of  time 
Has  throbbed  for  Liberty; 
For  a  hundred  years  the  grand  old  clime 
Columbia  has  been  free; 

For  a  hundred  years  our  country's  love, 
The  Stars  and  Stripes,  has  waved  above. 

Away  far  out  on  the  gulf  of  years — 

Misty  and  faint  and  white 
Through  the  fogs  of  wrong — a  sail  appears, 
And  the  Mayflower  heaves  in  sight, 
And  drifts  again,  with  its  little  flock 
Of  a  hundred  souls,  on  Plymouth  Rock. 

Do  you  see  them  there — as  long,  long  since — 
Through  the  lens  of  History; 
271 


272  LIBERTY 

Do  you  see  them  there  as  their  chieftain  prints 
In  the  snow  his  bended  knee, 
And  lifts  his  voice  through  the  wintry  blast 
In  thanks  for  a  peaceful  home  at  last? 

Though  the  skies  are  dark  and  the  coast  is  bleak, 

And  the  storm  is  wild  and  fierce, 
Its  frozen  flake  on  the  upturned  cheek 
Of  the  Pilgrim  melts  in  tears, 

And  the  dawn  that  springs  from  the  darkness 

there 
Is  the  morning  light  of  an  answered  prayer. 

The  morning  light  of  the  day  of  Peace 

That  gladdens  the  aching  eyes, 
And  gives  to  the  soul  that  sweet  release 
That  the  present  verifies, — 

Nor  a  snow  so  deep,  nor  a  wind  so  chill 
To  quench  the  flame  of  a  freeman's  will! 


II 


Days  of  toil  when  the  bleeding  hand 

Of  the  pioneer  grew  numb, 
When  the  untilled  tracts  of  the  barren  land 
Where  the  weary  ones  had  come 

Could  offer  nought  from  a  fruitful  soil 
To  stay  the  strength  of  the  stranger's  toil. 


LIBERTY  273 

Days  of  pain,  when  the  heart  beat  low, 

And  the  empty  hours  went  by 
Pitiless,  with  the  wail  of  woe 
And  the  moan  of  Hunger's  cry — 

When  the  trembling  hands  upraised  in  prayer 
Had  only  the  strength  to  hold  them  there. 

Days  when  the  voice  of  hope  had  fled — 

Days  when  the  eyes  grown  weak 
Were  folded  to,  and  the  tears  they  shed 
Were  frost  on  a  frozen  cheek — 

When  the  storm  bent   down   from  the   skies 

and  gave 
A  shroud  of  snow  for  the  Pilgrim's  grave. 

Days  at  last  when  the  smiling  sun 

Glanced  down  from  a  summer  sky, 
And  a  music  rang  where  the  rivers  run, 
And  the  waves  went  laughing  by; 
And  the  rose  peeped  over  the  mossy  bank 
While  the  wild  deer  stood  in  the  stream  and 
drank. 

And  the  birds  sang  out  so  loud  and  good, 

In  a  symphony  so  clear 

And  pure  and  sweet  that  the  woodman  stood 
With  his  ax  upraised  to  hear, 

And  to  shape  the  words  of  the  tongue  unknown 
Into  a  language  all  his  own: — 


274  LIBERTY 


Sing!  every  bird,  to-day! 

Sing  for  the  sky  so  clear, 

And  the  gracious  breath  of  the  atmosphere 
Shall  waft  our  cares  azvay. 
Sing!  sing!  for  the  sunshine  free; 
Sing  through  the  land  from  sea  to  sea; 
Lift  each  voice  in  the  highest  key 
And  sing  for  Liberty! 


Sing  for  the  arms  that  fling 

Their  fetters  in  the  dust 

And  lift  their  hands  in  higher  trust 
Unto  the  one  Great  King; 
Sing  for  the  patriot  heart  and  hand; 
Sing  for  the  country  they  have  planned; 
Sing  that  the  world  may  understand 
This  is  Freedom's  land! 


Sing  in  the  tones  of  prayer, 

Sing  till  the  soaring  soul 

Shall  float  above  the  world's  control 
In  Freedom  everywhere! 


LIBERTY  275 

Sing  for  the  good  that  is  to  be, 
Sing  for  the  eyes  that  are  to  see 
The  land  where  man  at  last  is  freet 
0  sing  for  Liberty! 

Ill 

A  holy  quiet  reigned,  save  where  the  hand 
Of  labor  sent  a  murmur  through  the  land, 
And  happy  voices  in  a  harmony 
Taught  every  lisping  breeze  a  melody. 
A  nest  of  cabins,  where  the  smoke  upcurled 
A  breathing  incense  to  the  other  world. 
A  land  of  languor  from  the  sun  of  noon, 
That  fainted  slowly  to  the  pallid  moon, 
Till  stars,  thick-scattered  in  the  garden-land 
Of  Heaven  by  the  great  Jehovah's  hand, 
Had  blossomed  into  light  to  look  upon 
The  dusky  warrior  with  his  arrow  drawn, 
As  skulking  from  the  covert  of  the  night 
With  serpent  cunning  and  a  fiend's  delight, 
With  murderous  spirit,  and  a  yell  of  hate 
The  voice  of  Hell  might  tremble  to  translate: 
When  the  fond  mother's  tender  lullaby 
Went  quavering  in  shrieks  all  suddenly, 
And  baby-lips  were  dabbled  with  the  stain 
Of  crimson  at  the  bosom  of  the  slain, 
And  peaceful  homes  and  fortunes  ruined — lost 
In  smoldering  embers  of  the  holocaust. 


276  LIBERTY 

Yet  on  and  on,  through  years  of  gloom  and  strife, 
Our  country  struggled  into  stronger  life; 
Till  colonies,  like  footprints  in  the  sand, 
Marked  Freedom's  pathway  winding  through  the 

land — 

And  not  the  footprints  to  be  swept  away 
Before  the  storm  we  hatched  in  Boston  Bay, — 
But  footprints  where  the  path  of  war  begun 
That  led  to  Bunker  Hill  and  Lexington, — 
For  he  who  "dared  to  lead  where  others  dared 
To  follow"  found  the  promise  there  declared 
Of  Liberty,  in  blood  of  Freedom's  host 
Baptized  to  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost ! 

Oh,  there  were  times  when  every  patriot  breast 
Was  riotous  with  sentiments  expressed 
In  tones  that  swelled  in  volume  till  the  sound 
Of  lusty  war  itself  was  well-nigh  drowned. 
Oh,  those  were  times  when  happy  eyes  with  tears 
Brimmed  o'er  as  all  the  misty  doubts  and  fears 
Were  washed  away,  and  Hope  with  gracious  mien, 
Reigned  from  her  throne  again  a  sovereign  queen. 
Until  at  last,  upon  a  day  like  this 
When  flowers  were  blushing  at  the  summer's  kiss, 
And  when  the  sky  was  cloudless  as  the  face 
Of  some  sweet  infant  in  its  angel  grace, — 
There  came  a  sound  of  music,  thrown  afloat 
Upon  the  balmy  air — a  clanging  note 
Reiterated  from  the  brazen  throat 


LIBERTY  277 

Of  Independence  Bell:    A  sound  so  sweet, 
The  clamoring  throngs  of  people  in  the  streets 
Were  stilled  as  at  the  solemn  voice  of  prayer, 
And  heads  were  bowed,  and  lips  were  moving  there 
That  made  no  sound — until  the  spell  had  passed, 
And  then,  as  when  all  sudden  comes  the  blast 
Of  some  tornado,  came  the  cheer  on  cheer 
Of  every  eager  voice,  while  far  and  near 
The  echoing  bells  upon  the  atmosphere 
Set  glorious  rumors  floating,  till  the  ear 
Of  every  listening  patriot  tingled  clear, 
And  thrilled  with  joy  and  jubilee  to  hear. 


Stir  all  your  echoes  up, 

O  Independence  Bell, 
And  pour  from  your  inverted  cup 

The  song  we  love  so  well. 

Lift  high  your  happy  voice, 
And  swing  your  iron  tongue 

Till  syllables  of  praise  rejoice 
That  never  yet  were  sung. 

Ring  in  the  gleaming  dawn 
Of  Freedom — Toll  the  knell 

Of  Tyranny,  and  then  ring  on, 
O  Independence  Bell. — 


278  LIBERTY 

Ring  on,  and  drown  the  moan 

Above  the  patriot  slain, 
Till  sorroiv's  voice  shall  catch  the  tone 

And  join  the  glad  refrain. 

Ring  out  the  wounds  of  wrong 
And  rankle  in  the  breast; 

Your  music  like  a  slumber-song 
Will  lull  revenge  to  rest. 

Ring  out  from  Occident 

To  Orient,  and  peal 
From  continent  to  continent 

The  mighty  joy  you  feel. 

Ring!  Independence  Bell! 

Ring  on  till  worlds  to  be 
Shall  listen  to  the  tale  you  tell 

Of  love  and  Liberty! 

IV 

O  Liberty — the  dearest  word 
A  bleeding  country  ever  heard, — 
We  lay  our  hopes  upon  thy  shrine 
And  offer  up  our  lives  for  thine. 
You  gave  us  many  happy  years 
Of  peace  and  plenty  ere  the  tears 
A  mourning  country  wept  were  dried 
Above  the  graves  of  those  who  died 


LIBERTY  279 

Upon  thy  threshold.    And  again 

When  newer  wars  were  bred,  and  men 

Went  marching  in  the  cannon's  breath 

And  died  for  thee  and  loved  the  death, 

While,  high  above  them,  gleaming  bright, 

The  dear  old  flag  remained  in  sight, 

And  lighted  up  their  dying  eyes 

With  smiles  that  brightened  paradise. 

O  Liberty,  it  is  thy  power 

To  gladden  us  in  every  hour 

Of  gloom,  and  lead  us  by  thy  hand 

As  little  children  through  a  land 

Of  bud  and  blossom;  while  the  days 

Are  filled  with  sunshine,  and  thy  praise 

Is  warbled  in  the  roundelays 

Of  joyous  birds,  and  in  the  song 

Of  waters,  murmuring  along 

The  paths  of  peace,  whose  flowery  fringe 

Has  roses  finding  deeper  tinge 

Of  crimson,  looking  on  themselves 

Reflected — leaning  from  the  shelves 

Of  cliff  and  crag  and  mossy  mound 

Of  emerald  splendor  shadow-drowned. — 

We  hail  thy  presence,  as  you  come 

With  bugle  blast  and  rolling  drum, 

And  booming  guns  and  shouts  of  glee 

Commingled  in  a  symphony 

That  thrills  the  worlds  that  throng  to  see 

The  glory  of  thy  pageantry. 


280  LIBERTY 

And  with  thy  praise,  we  breathe  a  prayer 
That  God  who  leaves  you  in  our  care 
May  favor  us  from  this  day  on 
With  thy  dear  presence — till  the  dawn 
Of  Heaven,  breaking  on  thy  face, 
Lights  up  thy  first  abiding  place. 


TOM  VAN  ARDEN 

TOM  VAN  ARDEN,  my  old  friend, 
Our  warm  fellowship  is  one 
Far  too  old  to  comprehend 

Where  its  bond  was  first  begun : 
Mirage-like  before  my  gaze 
Gleams  a  land  of  other  days, 
Where  two  truant  boys,  astray, 
Dream  their  lazy  lives  away. 

There's  a  vision,  in  the  guise 

Of  Midsummer,  where  the  Past 
Like  a  weary  beggar  lies 

In  the  shadow  Time  has  cast ; 
And  as  blends  the  bloom  of  trees 
With  the  drowsy  hum  of  bees, 
Fragrant  thoughts  and  murmurs  blend, 
Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend. 

Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend, 
All  the  pleasures  we  have  known 

Thrill  me  now  as  I  extend 

This  old  hand  and  grasp  your  own — 
281 


282  TOM  VAN  ARDEN 

Feeling,  in  the  rude  caress, 
All  affection's  tenderness; 
Feeling,  though  the  touch  be  rough, 
Our  old  souls  are  soft  enough. 

So  we'll  make  a  mellow  hour : 

Fill  your  pipe,  and  taste  the  wine — 
Warp  your  face,  if  it  be  sour, 
I  can  spare  a  smile  from  mine ; 
If  it  sharpen  up  your  wit, 
Let  me  feel  the  edge  of  it — 
I  have  eager  ears  to  lend, 
Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend. 

Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend, 
Are  we  "lucky  dogs,"  indeed? 
Are  we  all  that  we  pretend 
In  the  jolly  life  we  lead? — 
Bachelors,  we  must  confess, 
Boast  of  "single  blessedness" 
To  the  world,  but  not  alone — 
Man's  best  sorrow  is  his  own! 

And  the  saddest  truth  is  this, — 

Life  to  us  has  never  proved 
What  we  tasted  in  the  kiss 
Of  the  women  we  have  loved: 
Vainly  we  congratulate 
Our  escape  from  such  a  fate 
As  their  lying  lips  could  send, 
Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend ! 


TOM  VAN  ARDEN  283 

Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend, 

Hearts,  like  fruit  upon  the  stem, 
Ripen  sweetest,  I  contend, 
As  the  frost  falls  over  them: 
Your  regard  for  me  to-day 
Makes  November  taste  of  May, 
And  through  every  vein  of  rhyme 
Pours  the  blood  of  summer-time. 

When  our  souls  are  cramped  with  youth 

Happiness  seems  far  away 

In  the  future,  while,  in  truth, 

We  look  back  on  it  to-day 

Through  our  tears,  nor  dare  to  boast, — 
"Better  to  have  loved  and  lost !" 
Broken  hearts  are  hard  to  mend, 
Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend. 

Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend, 

I  grow  prosy,  and  you  tire ; 
Fill  the  glasses  while  I  bend 

To  prod  up  the  failing  fire.    .    .    . 
You  are  restless: — I  presume 
There's  a  dampness  in  the  room. — 
Much  of  warmth  our  nature  begs, 
With  rheumatics  in  our  legs!   .   .   • 

Humph !  the  legs  we  used  to  fling 

Limber-jointed  in  the  dance, 
When  we  heard  the  fiddle  ring 

Up  the  curtain  of  Romance, 


284  TOM  VAN  ARDEN 

And  in  crowded  public  halls 
Played  with  hearts  like  jugglers'  balls.— 
Feats  of  mountebanks,  depend! — 
Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend. 

Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend, 

Pardon,  then,  this  theme  of  mine: 
While  the  firelight  leaps  to  lend 
Higher  color  to  the  wine, — 
I  propose  a  health  to  those 
Who  have  homes,  and  home's  repose, 
Wife-  and  child-love  without  end! 
.   .    .   Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend. 


i\!OV  1  U 


1967 


Library  Bureau  Cat.  No.  1137 


